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AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY 



BY 

ANTHONY TEOLLOPE 

AUTHOR OP "the WARDEN" " BARCHESTER TOWERS " "DOCTOR TIIORNE 
"fRAMLEY parsonage" "he knew HE WAS RIGHT" 
" PHINEAS FINN " " THE PRIME MINISTER " ETC. 



NEW YORK 
HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE 

1883 






ANTHONY TROLLOPB'S WORKS. 



AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 12mo, Cloth,$l 25; 4to, Pa- 
per, 20 cents. 

AN EYE FOR AN EYE. 4to, Paper, 10 cents. 

AYALAS ANGEL. 4to. Paper, 20 cejits. 

BROWN, JONES, AND ROBINSON. 8vo, Paper, 
3.1 cents. 

CAN YOU FORGIVE HER? Illustrated. 8vo, 
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CASTLE RICHMOND. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

COUSIN HENRY. 4to, Paper, 10 cents. 

DOCTOR THORNE. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50 ; 8vo, 
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DR. AVORTLES SCHOOL. 4to, Paper, 15 cents. 

FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 4to, Paper, 15 cents. 

HARRY HEATHCOTE OF GANGOIL. Illus- 
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HE KNEW HE WAS RIGHT. Illnstrated. 8vo, 
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IS HE POPENJOY ? 4to, Paper, 20 cents. 

JOHN CALDIGATE. 4to. Paper, 15 cents. 

KEPT IN THE DARK. 4to, Paper, 15 cents. 

LADY ANNA. 8vo, Paper, 30 cents. 

MARION FAY. Illustrated. 4to, Paper, 20 cents. 

MISS MACKENZIE. 8vo, Paper, 35 cents. 

MR. SCARBOROUGH'S FAMILY. 4to, Paper, 
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ORLEY FAR.M. Illustrated. 8vo, Paper, 80 cents. 

PHINEAS FINN. THE IRISH ME.MBER. Illus- 
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RACHEL RAY. Svo, Paper, 35 cents. 

RALPH THE HEIR. lU'cl. Svo, Paper, 75 cents. 

SIR HARRY HOTSrt-R OF HUMBLETHWAITE. 
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THE AMERICAN SENATOR, Svo, Paper, 50 

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THE HELTON ESTATE. Svo, Paper, 35 cento, 
THE BERTRAMS. 4to, Paper, 15 cents. 
THE CLAVERINGS. Illuatrated. Svo, Paper, 50 

cents. 
THE DUKE'S CHILDREN. 4to, Paper, 20 cents. 
THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. Illustrated. Svo, 

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THE LADY OF LAUNAY, 32mo, Paper, £0 

cents. 
THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. Illns- 
trated. Svo, Paper, 90 cents, 
THE LIFE OF CICERO, 2 vols., 12mo, Cloth, 

$3 00. 
THE Lli-'E OF THACKERAY. 12mo, Cloth, 75 

cents. 
THE PRI.ME MINISTER. Svo, Paper, 60 cents. 
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THE THREE CLERKS. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50, 
THE VICAR OF BULLHAMPTON, Illustrated. 

Svo, Cloth, $1 30; Paper, 80 cents, 
THE WARDEN. — BARCHESTER TOWERS. 

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Paper, 90 cents. 
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Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 

t^ Harper & BroVhkrs ivill send any of the above works hy mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the 
• ', * United States, on receipt of the price. 



PEEPACE. 



It may be well that I should put a short preface to 
this book. In the summer of 1878 my father told me 
that he had written a memoir of his own life. He did 
not speak about it at length, but said that he had writ- 
ten me a letter, not to be opened until after his death, 
containing instructions for publication. 

This letter was dated 30th April, 1876. I will givc( 
here as much of it as concerns the public : " I wish you 
to accept, as a gift from me, given you now, the accom- 
panying pages, wliich contain a memoir of my life. My 
intention is that they shall be published after my death, 
and be edited by you. But I leave it altogether to 
your discretion whether to publish or to suppress the 
work — and also to your discretion whether any part or 
what part shall be omitted. But I would not wish that 
anything should be added to tlie memoir. If you wish 
to say any word as from yourself, let it be done in the 
shape of a preface or introductory chapter." At the 
end there is a postscript: '^The publication, if made 



vi Preface. 

at all, should be effected as soon as possible after 
my death." My father died on the 6th of December, 
1882. 

It will be seen, therefore, that my duty has been 
merely to pass the book through the press, conformably 
to the above instructions. The few foot-notes are my 
father's own additions or corrections. And I have 
made no alterations. I have suppressed some few pass- 
ages, but not more than w^ould amount to two printed 
pages has been omitted. My father has not given any 
of his own letters, nor was it his wish that any should 
be published. 

I see from my father's manuscript, and from his pa- 
pers, that the first two chapters of this memoir were 
WTitten in the latter part of 1875, that he began the 
^third chapter early in January, 1876, and that he fin- 
Mfshed the record before the middle of April in that 
\year. I state this, though there are indications in the 
book by which it might be seen at what time the me- 
moir was being written. 

So much I would say by way of preface. And I 
think I may also give in a few words the main inci- 
dents in my father's life after he completed his autobi- 
ography. 

He has said that he had given up hunting; but he 
still kept two horses for such riding as may be had in 
or about the immediate neighborhood of London. He 
continued to ride to the end of his life ; he liked the 



Preface. vii 

exercise, and I think it would have distressed him not 
to have had a horse in his stable. But he never spoke 
willingly on hunting matters. He had at last resolved 
to give up his favorite amusement, and that, as far as 
he was concerned, there should be an end of it. In the 
spring of 1877 he went to South Africa, and returned 
early in the following year with a book on the colony 
already written. In the summer of 1878 he was one of 
a party of ladies and gentlemen who made an expedition 
to Iceland in the Mastiffs one of Mr. John Burns's steam- 
ships. The journey lasted altogether sixteen days, and 
during that time Mr. and Mrs. Burns were the hospita- 
ble entertainers. When my father returned, he wrote 
a short account of ''How the Mastiff y^^^wi to Iceland." 
The book was printed, but was intended only for pri- 
vate circulation. 

Every day, until his last illness, my father continued 
his work. He would not otherwise have been happy. 
He demanded from himself less than he had done ten 
years previously, but his daily task was always done. I 
will mention now the titles of his books that were pub- 
lished after the last included in the list which he him- 
self has given at the end of the volume : 

An Eye for an Eye 1879 

Cousin Henry 1879 

Thackeray , 1879 

The Duke's Children 1880 

Life of Cicero 1880 

Ayala's Angel 1881 

Doctor Wortle's School 1881 



viii Preface. 

Frau Frohmann and other Stories 1882 

Lord Palmerston 1882 

The Fixed Period 1 882 

Kept in the Dark 1882 

Marion Fay 1 882 

Mr. Scarborough's Family 1883 

At the time of his death he had written four fifths of 
an Irish storj^ called " The Land-Leaguers," shortly about 
to be pubhshed ; and he left in manuscript a completed 
novel, called " An Old Man's Love," which will be pub- 
lished by Messrs. Blackwood & Sons in 1884. 

In the summer of 1880 my father left London, and 
went to live at Ilarting, a village in Sussex, but on the 
confines of Hampshire. I think he chose that spot be- 
cause he found there a house that suited him, and be- 
cause of the prettiness of the neighborhood. His last 
long journey was a trip to Italy in the late winter and 
spring of 1881 ; but he went to Ireland twice in 1882. 
He went there in May of that year, and was then absent 
nearly a month. This journey did him much good, for 
he found that the softer atmosphere relieved his asthma, 
from which he had been suffering for nearly eighteen 
months. In August following he made another trip to 
Ireland, but from this journey he derived less benefit. 
He vras much interested in, and was very much dis- 
tressed by, the unhappy condition of the country. Few 
men knew Ireland better than he did. He had lived 
there for sixteen years, and his Post-ofiice work had tak- 
en him into every part of the island. In the summer 
of 1882 he began his last novel, " The Land-Leaguers," 



Preface. ix 

which, as stated above, was unfinished when he died. 
This book was a cause of anxiety to him. He could 
not rid his mind of the fact that he had a story already 
in the course of publication, but which he had not yet 
completed. In no other case, except " Framley Par- 
sonage," did my father publish even the first number 
of any novel before he had fully completed the whole 
tale. 

On the evening of the 3d of November, 1882, he w^as 
seized with paralysis on the right side, accompanied by 
loss of speech. His mind also had failed, though at in- 
tervals his thouo^hts would return to him. After the 
first three weeks these lucid intervals became rarer, but 
it was always very diflicult to tell how far his mind 
was sound or how far astray. He died on the evening 
of the 6th of December following, nearly five weeks 
from the night of his attack. 

I have been led to say these few words, not at all 
from a desire to supplement my father's biography of 
himself, but to mention the main incidents in his life 
after he had finished his own record. In what I have 
here said I do not think I have exceeded his instruc- 
tions. 

Heney M. Teollope. 

September, 1883. 

A* 



CONTENTS. 



CHAP. PAGH 

I. MY EDUCATION, 1815-1834 1 

II. MY MOTHER 18 

HI. THE GENERAL POST-OFFICE, 1834-1841 . . . . 31 

IV. IRELAND. MY FIRST TWO NOVELS, 1841-1848 . . 54 

V. MY FIRST SUCCESS, 1849-1855 72 

VI. "BARCHESTER towers" AND THE "THREE CLERKS," 

1855-1858 91 

VII. " DOCTOR TIIORNE." " THE BERTRAMS." " THE 

WEST INDIES AND THE SPANISH MAIN " . . . . 107 
VIII. THE "CORNHILL MAGAZINE" AND " FRAMLEY PAR- 
SONAGE" 120 

IX. " CASTLE RICHMOND." " BRO^VN, JONES, AND ROB- 
INSON. " NORTH AMERICA." "ORLEYFARM" . 140 

X. "the small HOUSE AT ALLINGTON." "CAN YOU 

FORGIVE HER ?" " RACHEL RAY." THE " FORT- 
NIGHTLY REVIEAV " 156 

XI. " THE CLAVERINGS." THE " PALL MALL GAZETTE." 

" NINA BALATKA." " LINDA TRESSEL " . . .177 

XII. ON NOVELS AND THE ART OF WRITING THEM . . .193 

XIII. ON ENGLISH NOVELISTS OF THE PRESENT DAY . .219 

XIV. ON CRITICIS^f 235 



xii Cowt&iits. 

OHAP. PAGE 

XV. "the last chronicle of BARSET." LEAVING 

THE rOST-OFFICE. " ST. PAUL's MAGAZINE ". . 244 

XVI. BEVERLEY 261 

XVII. THE AMERICAN POSTAL TREATY. THE QUESTION 

OF COPYRIGHT WITH AMERICA. FOUR MORE 

NOVELS 274 

XVIII. " THE VICAR OF BULLHAMPTON." " SIR HARRY 

HOTSPUR." "an editor's TALES." " CiESAR " 290 

XIX. " RALPH THE HEIR." " THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS." 

" LADY ANNA." " AUSTRALIA " 305 

XX. "the way we live now" and "the PRIME 

MINISTER." CONCLUSION 312 



AUTOBIOGRAPHY 



OP 



ANTHONY TROLLOPS. 



Chaptek I. 

MY EDUCATION. 

1815-1834. 

In writing these pages, which, for the want of a bet- 
ter name, I shall be fain to call the autobiography of so 
insignificant a person as myself, it will not be so much 
my intention to speak of the little details of my private 
life as of what I, and perhaps others round me, have 
done in literature ; of my failures and successes, such 
as they have been, and their causes ; and of the opening 
which a literary career offers to men and women for 
the earning of their bread. And yet the garrulity of 
old age, and the aptitude of a man's mind to recnr to 
the passages of his own life, will, I know, tempt me to 
say something of myself ; nor, without doing so, should 
I know how to throw my matter into any recognized 
and intelligible form. That I, or any man, should tell 
everything of himself I hold to be impossible. Who 
could endure to own the doing of a mean thing? Who 

1 



2 Autobiography of Anthony Trollope. 

is tliere that has done none? But this I protest — that 
nothing that I saj shall be untrue. I will set down 
naught in malice ; nor will I give to myself, or others, 
honor which I do not believe to have been fairly won. 

My boyhood was, I think, as unhappy as that of a 
young gentleman could well be, my misfortunes arising 
from a mixture of poverty and gentle standing on the 
part of my father, and from an utter want on my own 
part of that juvenile manhood which enables some boys 
to hold up their heads even among the distresses which 
such a position is sure to produce. 

I was born in 1815, in Keppel Street, Russell Square, 
and w^hile a baby was carried down to Harrow, where 
my father had built a house on a large farm which, in 
an evil hour, he took on a long lease from Lord E"orth- 
wick. That farm was the grave of all my father's 
hopes, ambition, and prosperity, the cause of my moth- 
er's sufferings and of those of her children, and perhaps 
the director of her destiny and of ours. My father had 
been a Wykamist and a fellow of New College, and 
Winchester was the destination of my brothers and my- 
self ; but, as he had friends among the masters at Har- 
row, and as the school offered an education almost gra- 
tuitous to children living in the parish, he, with a certain 
aptitude to do things differently from others, which ac- 
companied him throughout his life, determined to use 
that august seminary as a "t'other school" for Win- 
chester, and sent three of us there, one after the other, 
at the age of seven. My father at this time was a 
Chancery barrister practising in London, occupying 
dingy, almost suicidal, chambers at No. 23 Old Square, 
Lincoln's Inn — chambers which, on one melancholy oc- 



Mij Education. 3 

casion, did become absolutely suicidal.* He was, as I 
have been informed bj those quite competent to know, 
an excellent and most conscientious lawyer, but plagued 
with so bad a temper that he drove the attorneys from 
him. In his early days he was a man of some small 
fortune and of higher hopes. These stood so high at 
the time of my birth tliat he was felt to be entitled to 
a country-house, as well as to that in Keppel Street ; 
and, in order that he might build such a residence, he 
took the farm. This place he called Julians, and the 
land runs up to the foot of the hill on which the school 
and church stand — on the side towards London. Things 
there went much against him : the farm was ruinous, 
and I remember that we all regarded the Lord North- 
wick of those days as a cormorant who was eating iis 
up. My father's clients deserted him. He purchased 
various dark, gloomy chambers in and about Chancery 
Lane, and his purchases always went wrong. Then, as 
a final, crushing blow, an old nncle, whose heir he was 
to have been, married and had a family ! The house in 
London was let, and also the house he built at Harrow, 
from which he descended to a farmhouse on the land, 
which I have endeavored to make known to some read- 
ers under the name of " Orley Farm." This place, just as 
it was when we lived there, is to be seen in the frontis- 
piece to the first edition of that novel, having had the 
good fortune to be delineated by no less a pencil than 
that of Jolm Millais. 

My two elder brothers had been sent as day-boarders 
to Harrow School from the bigger house, and may prob- 

* A pupil of his destroyed himself in the rooms. 



4 Autobiography of Anthony TroUope. 

ablj have been received among the aristocratic crowd — 
not on equal terms, because a day-boarder at Harrow in 
those days w^as never so received, but, at any rate, as 
other day-boarders. I do not suppose that they were 
well treated, but I doubt whetlier they were subjected 
to the ignominy which I endured. I w^is only seven, 
and I think that boys at seven are now spared among 
tlieir more considerate seniors. I was never spared, and 
was not even allowed to run to and fro between our 
house and the school without a daily purgatory. No 
doubt my appearance was against me. I remember 
well, when I was still the junior boy in the school. Dr. 
Butler, the head master, stopping me in the street, and 
asking me, with all the clouds of Jove upon his brow 
and all the thunder in his voice, whether it was possible 
that Harrow School was disgraced by so disreputably 
dirty a little boy as I ? Oh, what I felt at that moment ! 
But I could not look my feelings. I do not doubt that 
I was dirty — but I think that he was cruel. He must 
have known me had he seen me as he was wont to see 
me, for he was in the habit of flogging me constantly. 
Perhaps he did not recognize me by my face. 

At this time I was three years at Harrow ; and, as far 
as I can remember, I was the junior boy in the school 
when I left it. 

Then I was sent to a private school at Sunbury, kept 
by Arthur Drury. This, I think, must have been done 
in accordance with the advice of Henry Drury, who was 
my tutor at Harrow School and my father's friend, and 
who may probably have expressed an opinion that my 
juvenile career was not proceeding in a satisfactory 
manner at Harrow. To Sunbury I went, and during 



My Education. 5 

the two years I was there, though I never had any 
pocket-money, and seldom had much in the way of 
clothes, I lived more nearly on terms of equality with 
other boys than at any other period during my very 
prolonged school-days. Even here I was always in dis- 
grace. I remember well how, on one occasion, four 
boys were selected as having been the perpetrators of 
some nameless horror. What it was, to this day I can- 
not even guess ; but I was one of the four, innocent as 
a babe, but adjudged to have been the guiltiest of the 
guilty. We each had to write out a sermon, and my 
sermon was the longest of the four. During the whole 
of one term-time we wxre helped last at every meal. 
We w^ere not allowed to visit the playground till the 
sermon was finished. Mine was only done a day or 
two before the holidays. Mrs. Drury, when she saw us, 
shook her head with pitying horror. There w^ere ever 
so many other punishments accumulated on our heads. 
It broke my heart, knowing myself to be innocent, and 
suffering also under the almost equally painful feeling 
that the other three — no doubt wicked boys — were the 
curled darlings of the school, who would never have se- 
lected me to share their wickedness with them. I con- 
trived to learn, from words that fell from Mr. Drur}^, 
that he condemned me because I, having come from a 
public school, might be supposed to be the leader of 
wickedness ! On the first day of the next term he whis- 
pered to me half a word that perhaps he had been 
wrong. AVith all a stupid boy's slowness, I said noth- 
ing; and he had not the courage to carry reparation 
further. All that was fifty years ago, and it burns me 
now as though it w^ere yesterday. What lily-livered 



6 Aut6biogra])hy of Anthony Trollope, 

curs those boys must have been not to have told the 
truth ! at any rate, as far as I was concerned. I remem- 
ber their names well, and almost wish to write them 
here. 

When I was twelve there came the vacancy at Win- 
chester College which I was destined to fill. My two 
elder brothers had gone there, and the younger had been 
taken away, being already supposed to have lost his 
cliance of JSTew College. It had been one of the great 
ambitions of my father's life that his three sons who 
lived to go to Winchester should all become fellows of 
New College. But that suffering man was never des- 
tined to have an ambition gratified. We all lost the 
prize which he struggled with infinite labor to put 
within our reach. Mj^ eldest brother all but achieved 
it, and afterwards went to Oxford, taking three exhibi- 
tions from the school, though he lost the great glory of 
a Wykamist. He has since made himself well known 
to the public as a writer in connection with all Italian 
subjects. He is still living, as I now write. But my 
other brother died early. 

While I was at Winchester my father's affairs went 
from bad to worse. He gave up his practice at the bar, 
and, unfortunate that he was, took another farm. It is 
odd that a man should conceive — and in this case a 
highly educated and a very clever man— that farming 
should be a business in which he might make money with- 
out any special education or apprenticeship. Perhaps 
of all trades it is the one in which an accurate knowl- 
edge of what things should be done, and the best man- 
ner of doing them, is most necessary. And it is one 
also for success in which a sufficient capital is indispen- 



My Education, 7 

sable. He bad no knowledge, and, wben be took tbis 
second farm, no capital. Tbis was tbe last step pre- 
paratory to bis final ruin. 

Soon after I bad been sent to Wincbester my motber 
went to America, taking witb ber my brotber Henry 
and my two sisters, wbo were tben no more tban cbildren. 
Tbis was, I tbink, in 1827. I bave no clear knowledge 
of ber object, or of my fatber's; but I believe tbat 
be bad an idea tbat money migbt be made by sending 
goods — little goods, sucb as i^incusbions, pepper-boxes, 
and pocket-knives — out to tbe still unfurnisbed States ; 
and tbat sbe conceived tbat an opening migbt be made 
for my brotber Henry by erecting some bazaar or ex- 
tended sbop in one of tbe Western cities. Wbence tbe 
money came I do not know^, but tbe pocket-knives and 
tbe pepper-boxes were bougbt, and tbe bazaar built. I 
bave seen it since in tbe town of Cincinnati — a sorry 
building! But I bave been told tbat in tbose days it 
was an imposing edifice. My motber went first, witb 
my sisters and second brotber. Tben my fatber fol- 
lowed tbem, taking my elder brotber before be went to 
Oxford. But tbere was an interval of some year and 
a balf during wbicb be and I were at Wincbester to- 
getber. 

Over a period of forty years, since I began my man- 
bood at a desk in tbe Post - ofiice, I and my brotber, 
Tbomas Adolpbus, bave been fast friends. Tbere bave 
been bot words between us, for perfect friendsbip bears 
and allows bot words. Few brotbers bave bad more of 
brotberbood. But in tbose scbool-days be was, of all 
my foes, tbe worst. In accordance witb tbe practice of 
tbe college, wbicb submits, or did tben submit, mucb of 



8 Autdbiograjphy of Anthony Trollope. 

the tuition of the younger boys to the elder, he was 
my tutor ; and in his capacity of teacher and ruler, he 
had studied the theories of Draco. I remember well 
how he used to exact obedience after the manner of 
that lawgiver. Hang a little boy for stealing apples, 
he used to say, and other little boys will not steal 
apples. The doctrine was already exploded elsewhere, 
but he stuck to it with conservative energy. The re- 
sult was that, as a part of his daily exercise, he thrashed 
me with a big stick. That such thrashings should have 
been possible at a school as a continual part of one's 
daily life, seems to me to argue a very ill condition of 
school discipline. 

At this period I remember to have passed one set of 
holidays — the midsummer holidays^ in my father's 
chambers in Lincoln's Inn. There was often a difficulty 
about the holidays — as to what should be done with 
me. On this occasion my amusement consisted in 
wandering about among those old, deserted buildings, 
and in reading Shakespeare out of a bi-columned edi- 
tion which is still among my books. It was not that I 
had chosen Shakespeare, but that there was nothing else 
to read. 

After a while my brother left "Winchester and ac- 
companied my father to America. Tlien another and 
a different horror fell to my fate. My college bills had 
not been paid, and the school tradesmen who adminis- 
tered to the wants of the boys w^ere told not to extend 
their credit to me. Boots, waistcoats, and pocket-hand- 
kerchiefs, which, with some slight superveillance, were 
at the command of other scholars, were closed luxuries 
to me. My schoolfellows, of course, knew that it was 



My Education. 9 

so, and I became a pariah. It is the nature of boys to 
be cruel. I have sometimes doubted whether anions: 
each other they do usually suffer much, one from the 
other's cruelty ; but I suffered horribly ! I could make 
no stand against it. I had no friend to whom I could 
pour out my sorrows. I was big, and awkward, and 
ugly, and, I have no doubt, skulked about in a most un- 
attractive manner. Of course, I was ill-dressed and 
dirty. But, ah ! how well I remember all the agonies 
of my young heart ; how I considered whether I should 
always be alone ; whether I could not find my way up 
to the top of that college tower, and from thence put 
an end to everything ? And a worse thing came than 
the stoppage of the supplies from the shopkeepers. 
Every boy had a shilling a week pocket-money, which 
we called battels, and which was advanced to us out of 
the pocket of the second master. On one awful day 
the second master announced to me that my battels 
would be stopped. He told me the reason — the battels 
for the last half-year had not been repaid; and he 
urged his own unwillingness to advance the money. 
The loss of a shilling a week would not have been 
much — even though pocket-money from other sources 
never reached me — but that the other boys all knew 
it ! Every now and again, perhaps three or four times 
in a half-year, these weekly shillings were given to cer- 
tain servants of the college, in payment, it may be pre- 
sumed, for some extra services. And now, when it 
came to the turn of any servant, he received sixty-nine 
shillings instead of seventy, and the cause of the defal- 
cation was explained to him. I never saw one of those 
servants without feeling that I had picked his pocket. 

1* 



10 Autobiography of Anthony Trollope. 

When I had been at Winchester something over 
three years my fatlier returned to England and took 
me away. Whether this was done because of the ex- 
pense, or because my chance of New College was sup- 
posed to have passed away, I do not know. As a fact, 
I should, I believe, have gained the prize, as there oc- 
curred in my year an exceptional number of vacancies. 
But it would have served me nothing, as there would 
have been no funds for my maintenance at the univer- 
sity till I should have entered in upon the fruition of 
the founder's endowment, and my career at Oxford 
must have been unfortunate. 

AYhen I left Winchester I had three more years of 
school before me, having as yet endured nine. My 
father at this time, having left my mother and sisters, 
with my younger brother, in America, took himself to 
live at a wretched tumble-down farmhouse on the sec- 
ond farm he had hired, and I was taken there with 
liim. It was nearly three miles from Harrow, at Har- 
row Weald, but in the parish ; and from this house I 
was again sent to that school as a day-boarder. Let 
those who know what is the usual appearance and what 
the usual appurtenances of a boy at such a school, con- 
sider what must have been my condition among them, 
with a daily walk of twelve miles through the lanes, add- 
ed to the other little troubles and labors of a school life ! 

Perhaps the eighteen months which I passed in this 
condition, walking to and fro on those miserably dirty 
lanes, was the worst period of my life. I was now over 
fifteen, and had come to an age at which I could ap- 
preciate at its full the misery of expulsion from all 
social intercourse. I had not only no friends, but was 



My Education. li 

despised by all my companions. The farmhouse was 
not only no more than a farmhouse, but was one of 
those farmhouses which seem always to be in danger 
of falling into the neighboring horse-pond. As it 
crept downwards from house to stables, from stables to 
barns, from barns to cowsheds, and from cowsheds to 
dung-heaps, one could hardly tell where one began and 
the other ended ! There was a parlor in which my 
father lived, shut up among big books ; but I passed 
my most jocund hours in the kitchen, making innocent 
love to the bailiff's daughter. The farm kitchen might 
be very well through the evening, when the horrors of 
the school were over; but it all added to the cruelty of 
the days. A sizar at a Cambridge college, or a Bible- 
clerk at Oxford, has not pleasant days, or used not to 
have them half a century ago ; but his position was 
recognized, and the misery was measured. I was a 
sizar at a fashionable school, a condition never pre- 
meditated. What right had a wretched farmer's boy, 
reeking from a dung-hill, to sit next to the sons of 
peers — or, much worse still, next to the sons of big 
tradesmen who had made their ten thousand a year? 
The indignities I endured are not to be described. As 
I look back it seems to me that all hands were turned 
against me — those of masters as well as boys. I was 
allowed to join in no plays. Nor did I learn anything, 
for I was taught nothing. Tlie only expense, except 
that of books, to which a house-boarder was then sub- 
ject, was the fee to a tutor, amounting, I think, to ten 
guineas. My tutor took me without the fee; but when 
I heard him declare the fact in the pupil-room before 
the boys, I hardly felt grateful for the charity. I was 



12 Autobiography of Anthony TroUojpe. 

never a coward, and cared for a thrashing as little as 
any boy, but one cannot make a stand against the acer- 
bities of three hundred tyrants without a moral courage, 
of which at that time I possessed none. I know that I 
skulked, and was odious to the eyes of those I admired 
and envied. At last I was driven to rebellion, and 
there came a great fight — at the end of which my op- 
ponent had to be taken home for a while. If these 
words be ever printed, I trust that some sclioolfellow of 
those days may still be left alive who w^ill be able to 
say that, in claiming this solitary glory of my school- 
days, I am not making a false boast. 

I wish I could give some adequate picture of the 
gloom of that farmhouse. My elder brother — Tom, as 
I must call him in my narrative, though the world, I 
think, knows him best as Adolphus — was at Oxford. 
My father and I lived together, he having no means of 
living except what came from the farm. My memory 
tells me that he was always in debt to his landlord and 
to the tradesmen he employed. Of self-indulgence no 
one could accuse him. Our table was poorer, I think, 
than that of the bailiff who still hung on to our shat- 
tered fortunes. The furniture w^as mean and scanty. 
There w^as a large, rambling kitchen -garden, but no 
gardener; and many times verbal incentives were made 
to me — generall}^, I fear, in vain — to get me to lend a 
hand at digging and planting. Into the hayfield on 
holidays I was often compelled to go — not, I fear, with 
much profit. My father's health was very bad. Dur- 
ing the last ten years of his life he spent nearly the 
half of his time in bed, suffering agony from sick-head- 
aches. But he was never idle unless when suffering. 



My Education. 13 

He had at this time commenced a work — an Encyclo- 
paedia Ecclesiastica, as lie called it — on which he 
labored to the moment of his death. It was his am- 
bition to describe all ecclesiastical terms, including the 
denominations of every fraternity of monks and every 
convent of nuns, with all their orders and subdivisions. 
Under crushing disadvantages, with few or no books 
of reference, with immediate access to no library, he 
worked at his most ungrateful task with unflagging in- 
dustry. When he died, tliree numbers out of eight 
had been published by subscription ; and are now, I 
fear, unknown, and buried in the midst of that huge 
pile of futile literature, the building up of which has 
broken so many hearts. 

And my father, though lie w^ould try, as it were by a 
side wind, to get a useful spurt of work out of me, 
either in the garden or in the hay-field, had constantly 
an eye to my scholastic improvement. From my very 
babyhood, before those first days at Harrow, I had to 
take my place alongside of him as he shaved, at six 
o'clock in the morning, and say my early rules from the 
Latin Grammar, or repeat the Greek alphabet ; and was 
obliged at these early lessons to hold my head inclined 
towards him, so that, in the event of guilty fault, he 
might be able to pull my hair without stopping his 
razor or dropping his shaving-brush. JSTo father w^as 
ever more anxious for the education of his children, 
though I think none ever knew less how to go about 
the work. Of amusement, as far as I can remember, he 
never recognized the need. He allowed himself no 
distraction, and did not seem to think it was necessary 
to a child. I cannot bethink me of aught that he ever 



14 Autobiography of Anthony Trollojpe. 

did for my gratification ; but for my welfare — for the 
welfare of us all — he was willing to make any sacrifice. 
At this time, in the farmhouse at Harrow Weald, he 
could not give his time to teach me, for every hour that 
he was not in tlie fields was devoted to liis monks and 
nuns; but he would require me to sit at a table with 
Lexicon and Gradus before me. As I look back on my 
resolute idleness and fixed determination to make no 
use whatever of the books thus thrust upon me, or of 
the hours, and as I bear in mind the consciousness of 
great energy in after-life, I am in doubt whether my 
nature is wholly altered, or whether his plan was wholly 
bad. In those days he never punished me, though I 
think I grieved him much by my idleness ; but in pas- 
sion he knew not what he did, and he has knocked me 
down with the great folio Bible which he always used. 
In the old house were the first two volumes of Coop- 
er's novel called " The Prairie," a relic — probably a dis- 
lionest relic — of some subscription to Hookham's library. 
Other books of the kind there was none. I wonder 
how many dozen times I read those first two volumes. 

It was the horror of those dreadful w^alks backwards 
and forwards which made my life so bad. AVhat so 
pleasant, what so sweet, as a walk along an English 
lane, wdien the air is sweet and the weather fine, and 
when there is a charm in walking ! But here were the 
same lanes four times a day, in wet and dr^^, in heat and 
summer, with all the accompanying mud and dust, and 
with disordered clothes. I might have been known 
among all the boys at a hundred yards' distance by my 
boots and trousers — and was conscious at all times that 
I was so known. I remembered constantly that ad- 



3ly Education. 15 

dress from Dr. Butler when I was a little boy. Dr. 
Longley might with equal justice have said the same 
thing any day, only that Dr. Longley never in his life 
was able to say an ill-natured word. Dr. Butler only 
became Dean of Peterborough, but his successor lived 
to be Archbishop of Canterburj^ 

I think it was in the autumn of 1831 that my 
mother, with the rest of the familj^, returned from 
America. She lived at first at the farmhouse, but it 
was only for a short time. She came back with a book 
written about the United States, and the immediate 
pecuniary success which that work obtained enabled her 
to take us all back to the house at Harrow — not to the 
first house, which would still have been beyond her 
means, but to that which has since been called Orley 
Farm, and which was an Eden as compared to our abode 
at Harrow AVeald. Here my schooling went on un- 
der somewhat improved circumstances. The three 
miles became half a mile, and probably some salutary 
changes were made in my wardrobe. My mother and 
my sisters, too, were there. And a great element of 
happiness was added to us all in the affectionate and 
life-enduring friendship of the family of our close 
neiglibor. Colonel Grant. But I was never able to 
overcome — or even to attempt to overcome — the abso- 
lute isolation of my school position. Of the cricket- 
ground or racket-court I was allowed to know nothing. 
And yet I longed for these things with an exceeding 
longing. I coveted popularity with a covetousness tliat 
was almost mean. It seemed to me that there would 
be an Elysium in the intimacy of those very boys whom 
I was bound to hate because they hated me. Some- 



16 Autobiography of Anthony Trollope. 

thing of the disgrace of my school-days has ching to me 
all through life. jS'ot that I have ever shunned to 
si:)eak of them as openly as I am writing now, but that, 
when I have been claimed as schoolfellow by some of 
those many hundreds who were with me either at Har- 
row or at Winchester, I have felt that I had no right 
to talk of things from most of which I was kept in es- 
trangement. 

Through all my father's troubles he still desired to 
send me either to Oxford or Cambridge. My elder 
brother went to Oxford, and Henry to Cambridge. It 
all depended on my ability to get some scholarship 
that would help me to live at the university. I had 
many chances. There were exhibitions from Harrow 
— which I never got. Twice I tried for a sizarship at 
Clare Hall, but in vain. Once I made a futile at- 
tempt for a scholarship at Trinity, Oxford, but failed 
again. Then the idea of a university career was aban- 
doned. And very fortunate it was that I did not suc- 
ceed, for my career, with such assistance only as a 
scholarship would have given me, would have ended in 
debt and ignominy. 

When I left Harrow I was all but nineteen, and I 
had at first gone there at seven. During the whole of 
those twelve 3^ears no attempt had been made to teach me 
anything but Latin and Greek, and very little attempt to 
teach me those languages. I do not remember any les- 
sons either in writing or arithmetic. French and Ger- 
man I certainly was not taught. The assertion will 
scarcely be credited, but I do assert that I have no 
recollection of other tuition except that in the dead 
languages. At the school at Sunbury there was cer- 



My Education. 17 

tainly a writing master and a French master. The 
latter was an extra, and I never had extras. I suppose 
I must have been in the writing master's class, but 
though I can call to mind the man, I cannot call to 
mind his ferule. It was by their ferules that I always 
knew them, and they me. I feel convinced in my mind 
that I have been flogged oftener than any human being 
alive. It was just possible to obtain five scourgings in 
one day at AVinchester, and I have often boasted that I 
obtained them all. Looking back over half a century, 
I am not quite sure whether the boast is true ; but if I 
did not, nobody ever did. 

And yet, when I think how little I knew of Latin or 
Greek on leaving Harrow at nineteen, I am astonished 
at the possibility of such waste of time. I am now a 
fair Latin scholar — that is to say, I read and enjoy the 
Latin classics, and could probably make myself under- 
stood in Latin prose. But the knowledge which I have, 
I have acquired since I left school — no doubt, aided 
much by that groundwork of the language which will 
in the process of years make its way slowly, even through 
the skin. There were twelve years of tuition in which 
I do not remember that I ever knew a lesson ! When 
I left Harrow I was nearly at the top of the school, 
being a monitor, and, I think, the seventh boy. This 
position I achieved by gravitation upwards. I bear in 
mind well with how prodigal a hand prizes used to be 
showered about — but I never got a prize. From the 
first to the last there was nothing satisfactory in my 
school career, except the way in which I licked the boy 
who had to be taken home to be cured. 



18 Autobiography of Anthony Trolloj>e. 



Chaptee II. 

MY MOTHER. 

TnorGH I do not wisli in these pages to go back to 
the origin of all the Trollopes, I must say a few words 
of my mother — partly because filial duty will not allow 
me to be silent as to a parent who made for herself a 
considerable name in the literature of her day, and j)art- 
ly because there were circumstances in her career well 
worthy of notice. She was the daughter of the Eev. 
William Milton, vicar of Heckfield, who, as well as my 
father, had been a fellow of New College. She was 
nearly thirty when, in 1809, she married my father. 
Six or seven years ago a bundle of love-letters from 
her to him fell into my hand in a very singular way, 
having been found in the house of a stranger, who, 
with much courtes}^, sent them to me. They were then 
about sixty years old, and had been written some before 
and some after her marriage, over tlie space of perhaps 
a year. In no novel of Richardson's or Miss Barney's 
have I seen a correspondence at the same time so sweet, 
so graceful, and so well expressed. But the marvel of 
these letters was in the strange difference they bore to 
the love-letters of the present day. They are, all of 
them, on square paper, folded and sealed, and addressed 
to my father on circuit; but the language in each, 
tliougli it almost borders on the romantic, is beautifully 



My Mother. 19 

chosen, and fit, without change of a syllable, for the most 
critical eye. What girl now studies the words with 
wliich she shall address her lover, or seeks to charm 
him with grace of diction ? She dearly likes a little 
slang, and revels in the luxury of entire familiarity with 
a new and strange being. There is something in that, 
too, pleasant to our thoughts, but I fear that this phase 
of life does not conduce to a taste for poetry among 
our girls. Though my mother was a writer of prose, 
and revelled in satire, the poetic feeling clung to her 
to the last. 

In the first ten years of her married life she became 
the mother of six children, four of wliom died of con- 
sumption at different ages. My elder sister married, 
and had children, of whom one still lives; but she was 
one of the four who followed each other at intervals 
during my mother's lifetime. Then my brother Tom 
and I were left to her, with the destiny before us three 
of writing more books than were probably ever before 
produced by a single family.^ M}^ married sister add- 
ed to the number by one little anonymous Higli-church 
story, called " Chollerton." 

From the date of their marriage up to 1827, when 
my mother went to America, my father's affairs had 
always been going down in the world. She had loved 
society, affecting a somewhat liberal role^ and professing 
an emotional dislike to tyrants, whicli sprung from tlie 

* The family of Estienne, the great French printers of the fifteenth and 
sixteenth centuries, of whom there were at least nine or ten, did more, 
perhaps, for the production of literature than any other family. But they, 
though they edited, and not unfrequently translated, the works which they 
published, were not authors in the ordinary sense. 



\ 



20 Autobiography of Anthony Trollojpe. 

wrongs of would-be regicides and the poverty of patriot 
exiles. An Italian marquis who had escaped with only 
a second shirt from the clutches of some archduke 
whom he had wished to exterminate, or a French proU- 
taire with distant ideas of sacrificing himself to the 
cause of liberty^ jye^e always welcome to the modest 
hospitality of her house. In after -years, when mar- 
quises of another caste had been gracious to her, she 
became a strong Tory, and thought that archduchesses 
were sweet. But with her politics were always an af- 
fair of the heart, as, indeed, were all her convictions. 
Of reasoning from causes, I think that she knew noth- 
ing. Her heart was in every way so perfect, her desire 
to do good to all around her so thorough, and her power 
of self-sacrifice so complete, that she generally got her- 
self right in spite of her want of logic ; but it must be 
acknowledged that she was emotional. I can remem- 
ber now her books, and can see her at her pursuits. 
The poets she loved best were Dante and Spenser. 
But she raved also of him of whom all such ladies were 
raving then, and rejoiced in the popularity and wept 
over the persecution of Lord Byron. She was among 
those who seized with avidity on the novels, as they 
came out, of the then unknown Scott, and who could 
still talk of the triumphs of Miss Edgeworth. With 
the literature of the day she was familiar, and with the 
poets of the past. Of other reading I do not think she 
had mastered much. Her life, I take it, though latterly 
clouded by many troubles, was easy, luxurious, and idle, 
till my father's affairs and her own aspirations sent her 
to America. She had dear friends among literary peo- 
ple, of whom I remember Mathias, Henry Mil man, and 



My Mother. 21 

Miss Landon ; but till long after middle life she never 
herself wrote a line for publication. 

In 1827 she went to America, having been partly in- 
stigated by the social and communistic ideas of a lady 
whom I well remember — a certain Miss Wright — who 
was, I think, the first of the American female lecturers. 
Her chief desire, how^ever, was to establish my brother 
Henry ; and perhaps joined with that was the addition- 
al object of breaking up her English home without 
pleading broken fortunes to all the world. At Cincin- 
nati, in the state of Ohio, she built a bazaar, and, I fancy, 
lost all the money which may have been embarked in 
that speculation. It could not have been much, and I 
think that others also must have suffered. But she 
looked about her, at her American cousins, and resolved 
to write a book about them. This book she brouojht 
back with her in 1831, and published it early in 1832. 
When she did this she was already fifty. When doing 
it she was aware that unless she could so succeed in 
making money, there was no money for any of the 
family. She had never before earned a shilling. • She 
almost immediately received a considerable sum from 
the publishers — if I remember rightly, amounting to 
two suras of £400 each, within a few months ; and from 
that moment till nearly tlie time of her death, at any 
rate, for more than twenty years, she was in the receipt 
of a considerable income from her writings. It was a 
late age at which to begin such a career. 

"The Domestic Manners of the Americans" was the 
first of a series of books of travels, of which it was 
probably the best, and was certainly the best -known. 
It will not be too much to say of it that it had a mate- 



23 Autobiography of Anthony Trollojpe. 

rial effect upon the manners of the Americans of the 
day, and that that eifect has been fully appreciated by 
them. ]S"o observer was certainly ever less qualified to 
judge of the prospects or even of the happiness of a 
young people. No one could have been worse adapted 
by nature for the task of learning whether a nation was 
in a way to thrive. Whatever she saw she judged, as 
most women do, from her own standing -point. If a 
thing were ugly to her eyes, it ought to be ugly to all 
eyes — and if ugly, it must be bad. What though peo- 
ple had plenty to eat and clothes to wear, if they put 
their feet upon the tables and did not reverence their 
betters ? The Americans were to her rough, uncouth, 
and vulgar — and she told them so. Those communistic 
and social ideas, which had been so pretty in a drawing- 
room, were scattered to the winds. Her volumes were 
very bitter ; but they were very clever, and they saved 
the family from ruin. 

Book followed book immediately — first, two novels, 
and then a book on Belgium and Western Germany. 
She refurnished the house which I have called Orley 
Farm, and surrounded us again with moderate com- 
forts. Of the mixture of joviality and industry which 
formed her character it is almost impossible to speak 
with exaggeration. The industry was a thing apart, 
kept to herself. It was not necessary that any one who 
lived with her should see it. She was at lier table at 
four in the morning, and had finished her work before 
the world had begun to be aroused. But the joviality 
was all for others. She could dance with other peo- 
ple's legs, eat and drink with other people's palates, be 
proud with the lustre of other people's finery. Every 



My Mother. 23 

motlier can do that for lier own daughters; but she 
could do it for any girl whose look, and voice, and man- 
ners pleased her. Even when she was at work, the 
laughter of those she loved was a pleasure to her. She 
had much, very much, to suffer. Work sometimes came 
hard to her, so much being required — for she was ex- 
travagant, and liked to have money to spend ; but of 
all people I have known she was the most joyous, or, 
at any rate, the most capable of joy. 

We continued this renewed life at Harrow for nearly 
two years, during which I was still at the school, and 
at the end of which I was nearly nineteen. Then there 
came a great catastrophe. My father, who, when he 
was well, lived a sad life among his monks and nuns, 
still kept a horse and gig. One day in March, 1834, 
just as it had been decided that I should leave the 
school then, instead of remaining, as had been intend- 
ed, till midsummer, I was summoned very early in the 
morning to drive him up to London. He had been ill, 
and must still have been very ill indeed when he sub- 
mitted to be driven by any one. It was not till we 
had started that he told me that I was to put him on 
board the Ostend boat. This I did. drivino^ him throuo:h 
the city down to the docks. It was not within his 
nature to be communicative, and to the last he never 
told me w^hy he was going to Ostend. Something of 
a general flitting abroad I had heard before, but why 
he should have flown the first, and flown so suddenly, 
I did not in the least know till I returned. When I 
got back with the gig, the house and furniture were all 
in charge of the sheriff's officers. 

The gardener who had been with us in former days 



24 Autobiography of Anthony Trollope. 

stopped me as I drove np the road, and with gestures, 
signs, and whispered words, gave me to understand tliat 
the whole affair — horse, gig, and harness — would be 
made prize of if I went but a few yards farther. Wliy 
they should not have been made prize of I do not know. 
The little piece of dishonest business which I at once 
took in hand and carried through successfully was of 
no special service to any of us. I drove the gig into 
the village, and sold the entire equipage to the iron- 
monger for £17, the exact sum which he claimed as 
being due to himself. I was much complimented by 
the gardener, who seemed to think that so much had 
been rescued out of the fire. I fancy tliat the iron- 
monger was the only gainer by my smartness. 

When I got back to the house a scene of devastation 
was in progress, which still was not without its amuse- 
ment. My mother, throngh her various troubles, had 
contrived to keep a certain number of pretty-pretties 
which were dear to her heart. They were not mucli, 
for in those days the ornamentation of houses was not 
lavish, as it is now ; but there was some china, and a 
little glass, a few books, and a very moderate supply of 
household silver. These things, and things like them, 
were being carried down surreptitiously, through a gap 
between the two gardens, on to the premises of our 
friend Colonel Grant. My two sisters, then sixteen and 
seventeen, and the Grant girls, who were just younger, 
were the chief marauders. To such forces I was hap- 
py to add myself for any enterprise, and between us 
we cheated the creditors to tlie extent of our powers, 
amid the anathemas, but good-humored abstinence 
from personal violence, of the men in charge of the 



My Mother. 25 

property. I still own a few books that were thus pur- 
loined. 

For a few days the whole family bivouacked under 
the colonel's hospitable roof, cared for and comforted 
by that dearest of all women, his wife. Then we fol- 
lowed my father to Belgium, and established ourselves 
in a large house just outside the walls of Bruges. At 
this time, and till my father's death, everything was 
done with money earned by my mother. She now again 
furnished the house — this being the third that she had 
put in order since she came back from America two 
years and a half ago. 

There were six of us went into this new banishment. 
My brother Henry had left Cambridge, and was ill. 
My younger sister was ill. And though as yet we 
hardly told each other that it was so, we began to feel 
that that desolating fiend, consumption, was among us. 
My father was broken-hearted as well as ill, but when- 
ever he could sit at his table he still worked at his ec- 
clesiastical records. My elder sister and I were in good 
health, but I was an idle, desolate hanger-on, that most 
hopeless of human beings, a hobbledehoy of nineteen, 
without any idea of a career, or a profession, or a trade. 
As well as I can remember I was fairly happy, for 
there were pretty girls at Bruges with whom I could 
fancy that I was in love; and I had been removed 
from the real misery of school. But as to my future 
life I had not even an aspiration. Now and again there 
would arise a feeling that it was hard upon my mother 
that she should have to do so much for us, that we 
should be idle while she was forced to work so con- 
stantly ; but we should probably have thought more 

9. 



26 Autobiography of Anthony Trollope, 

of that had she not taken to work as though it were 
the recognized condition of life for an old lady of fifty- 
five. 

Then, by degrees, an established sorrow was at home 
among us. My brother was an invalid, and the horrid 
word, which of all words was for some years after the 
most dreadful to us, had been pronounced. It was no 
longer a delicate chest, and some temporary necessity 
for peculiar care — but consumption ! The Bruges doc- 
tor had said so, and we knew that he was right. From 
that time forth my mother's most visible occupation 
was that of nursino^. There were two sick men in the 
house, and hers were the hands that tended them. The 
novels went on, of course. We had already learned to 
know that they would be forthcoming at stated inter- 
vals, and they always were forthcoming. The doctor's 
vials and the ink-bottle held equal places in my mother's 
rooms. I have written many novels, under many cir- 
cumstances ; but I doubt much whether I could write 
one when my whole heart was by the bedside of a 
dying son. Her power of dividing herself into two 
parts, and keeping her intellect by itself, clear from the 
troubles of the world, and fit for the duty it had to do, 
I never saw equalled. I do not think that the writing 
of a novel is the most difiicult task which a man may 
be called upon to do ; but it is a task that may be sup- 
posed to demand a spirit fairly at ease. The work of 
doing it with a troubled spirit killed Sir Walter Scott. 
My mother went through it unscathed in strength, 
though she performed all the work of day-nurse and 
night-nurse to a sick household; for there were soon 
three of them dying. 



i 



My Mother. 27 

At this time there came from some quarter an offer 
to me of a commission in an Austrian cavahy regiment ; 
and so it was apparently my destiny to be a soldier. 
But I must first learn German and French, of which 
languages I knew almost nothing. For this a year was 
allowed me, and in order that it might be accomplished 
without expense, I undertook the duties of a classical 
usher to a school then kept by William Drury at Brus- 
sels. Mr. Drury had been one of the masters at Har- 
row when I went there at seven years old, and is now, 
after an interval of fifty-three years, even yet officiating 
as clergyman at that place.* To Brussels I went, and 
my heart still sinks within me as I reflect that any one 
should have intrusted to me the tuition of thirty boys. 
I can only hope that those boys went there to learn 
French, and that their parents were not particular as to 
their classical acquirements. I remember that on two 
occasions I was sent to take the school out for a walk ; 
but that after the second attempt Mrs. Drury declared 
that the boys' clothes would not stand any further ex- 
periments of that kind. I cannot call to mind any 
learning by me of other languages ; but as I only re- 
mained in that position for six weeks, perhaps the re- 
turn lessons had not been as yet commenced. At the 
end of the six weeks a letter reached me, offering me a 
clerkship in the General Post-office, and I accepted it. 
Among my mother's dearest friends she reckoned Mrs. 
Freeling, the wife of Clayton Freeling, whose father, 
Sir Francis Freeling, then ruled the Post-office. She 
had heard of my desolate position, and had begged 

*■ He died two years after these words were written. 



28 Autobiograjyhy of Anthony Trollope. 

from her father-in-law the offer of a berth in his own 
office. 

I hurried back from Brussels to Bruges on my way 
to London, and found that the number of invalids had 
been increased. My younger sister, Emily, who, when 
I had left the house, was trembling on the balance, who 
had been pronounced to be delicate, but with that false- 
tongued hope which knows the truth, but will lie lest 
the heart should faint, had been called delicate, but only 
delicate, was now ill. Of course, she was doomed. I 
knew it of both of them, though I had never heard the 
word spoken, or had spoken it to any one. And my 
father was very ill — ill to dying, though I did not know 
it. And my mother had decreed to send my elder sis- 
ter away to England, thinking that the vicinity of so 
much sickness might be injurious to her. All this hap- 
pened late in the autumn of 1834, in the spring of 
which year we had come to Bruges ; and then my 
mother was left alone in a big house outside the town, 
with two Belgian women-servants, to nurse these dying 
patients — the patients being her husband and children 
— and to write novels for the sustenance of the family ! 
It was about this period of her career that her best 
novels were written. 

To my own initiation at the Post-office I will return 
in the next chapter. Just before Christmas my brother 
died, and was buried at Bruges. In the following Feb- 
ruary my father died, and was buried alongside of him, 
— and with him died that tedious task of his, w^hich I 
can only hope may have solaced many of his latter 
hours. I sometimes look back, meditating for hours 
together, on his adverse fate. lie was a man finely 



My Mother, 39 

educated, of great parts, with immense capacity for 
work, physically strong very much beyond the average 
of men, addicted to no vices, carried off by no pleasures, 
affectionate by nature, most anxious for the welfare of 
his children, born to fair fortunes, who, when he started 
in the world, may be said to have had everything at his 
feet. But everything went wrong with him. The 
touch of his hand seemed to create failure. He em- 
barked in one hopeless enterprise after another, spend- 
ing on each all the money he could at the time com- 
mand. But the worst curse to him of all was a temper 
so irritable that even those whom he loved the best 
could not endure it. We were all estranged from him, 
and yet I believe that he would have given his heart's 
blood for any of us. His life, as I knew it, was one 
long tragedy. 

After his death my mother moved to England, and 
took and furnished a small house at Hadley, near Bar- 
net. I w^as then a clerk in the London Post-office, and 
I remember well how gay she made the place with lit- 
tle dinners, little dances, and little picnics, while she 
herself was at work every morning long before others 
had left their beds. But she did not stay at Hadley 
much above a year. She went up to London, where 
she again took and furnished a house, from which my 
remaining sister was married and carried away into 
Cumberland. My mother soon followed her, and on 
this occasion did more than take a house. She bought 
a bit of land, a field of three acres near the town, and 
built a residence for herself. Tliis, I think, was in 
1841, and she had thus established and re-established 
herself six times in ten years. But in Cumberland she 



30 Autobiography of Anthony Trollojpe. 

found the climate too severe, and in 1844 she moved 
herself to Florence, where she remained till her death 
in 1863. She continued writing up to 1856, when she 
was seventy-six years old, and had at that time produced 
one hundred and fourteen volumes, of which the first 
was not written till she was fifty. Her career offers 
great encouragement to those who have not begun early 
in life, but are still ambitious to do something before 
they depart hence. 

She was an unselfish, affectionate, and most industri- 
ous woman, with great capacity for enjoyment, and high 
physical gifts. She was endowed, too, with much crea- 
tive power, with considerable humor, and a genuine 
feeling for romance. But she was neither clear-sighted 
nor accurate ; and in her attempts to describe morals, 
manners, and even facts, was unable to avoid the pit- 
falls of exaggeration. 



The General Post-office, 31 



Chapter III. 

THE GENERAL POST-OFFICE. 
1834-1841. 

While I was still learniDg my duty as an usLer at 
Mr. Drnry's school at Brussels, I was summoned to my 
clerkship in the London Post-office, and on my way 
passed through Bruges. I then saw my father and my 
brother Henry for the last time. A sadder household 
never was held together. They were all dying — except 
my mother, who would sit up night after night nursing 
the dying ones, and writing novels the while, so that 
there might be a decent roof for them to die under. 
Had she failed to write the novels, I do not know where 
the roof would have been found. It is now more than 
forty years ago, and looking back over so long a lapse 
of time I can tell the story, though it be the story of 
my own father and mother, of my own brother and sis- 
ter, almost as coldly as I have often done some scene of 
intended pathos in fiction ; but that scene was indeed 
full of pathos. I was then becoming alive to the blight- 
ed ambition of my father's life, and becoming alive also 
to the violence of the strain which my mother was en- 
during. But I could do nothing but go and leave them. 
There was something that comforted me in the idea 
that I need no longer be a burden — a fallacious idea, as 
it soon proved. My salary was to be £90 a year, and 



32 Aut6biograj)hy of Anthony Trollojpe. 

on that I was to live in London, keep up my character 
as a gentleman, and be happy. That I should have 
thought this possible at the age of nineteen, and should 
have been delighted at being able to make the attempt, 
does not surprise me now ; but that others should have 
thought it possible, friends who knew something of the 
world, does astonish me. A lad might have done so, 
no doubt, or might do so even in these days, who was 
properly looked after and kept under control, on whose 
behalf some law of life had been laid down. Let him 
pay so much a week for his board and lodging, so much 
for his clothes, so much for his washing, and then let 
him understand that he has — shall we say ? — sixpence a 
day left for pocket-money and omnibuses. Any one 
making the calculation will find the sixpence far too 
much. ^0 such calculation was made for me or by me. 
It was supposed that a sufficient income liad been se- 
cured to me, and that I should live upon it as other 
clerks lived. 

But as yet the £90 a year was not secured to me. 
On reaching London I went to my friend Clayton Free- 
ling, who was then secretary at the Stamp-office, and was 
taken by him to the scene of my future labors in St. 
Martin's-le-Grand. Sir Francis Freeling was the secre- 
tary, but he was greatly too high an official to be seen 
at first by a new junior clerk. I was taken, therefore, 
to his eldest son, Henry Freeling, who was the assistant 
secretary, and by him I was examined as to my fitness. 
The story of that examination is given accurately in 
one of the opening chapters of a novel written by me, 
called " The Three Clerks." If any reader of this me- 
moir would refer to that chapter and see how Charley 



The General Post-office, 33 

Tudor was supposed to have been admitted into the 
Internal Navigation Office, that reader will learn how 
Anthony Trollope was actually admitted into the secre- 
tary's office of the General Post-office in 1834. I was 
asked to copy some lines from the Times newspaper 
with an old quill pen, and at once made a series of blots 
and false spellings. " That won't do, you know," said 
Henry Freeling to his brother Clayton. Clayton, who 
was my friend, urged that I was nervous, and asked that 
I might be allowed to do a bit of writing at home and 
bring it as a sample on the next day. I was then asked 
whether I was a proficient in arithmetic. What could 
I say ? I had never learned the multiplication table, 
and had no more idea of the rule of three than of conic 
sections. " I know a little of it," I said humbly, where- 
upon I was sternly assured that on the morrow, should 
I succeed in showing that my handwriting was all that 
it ought to be, I should be examined as to that little of 
arithmetic. If that little should not be found to com- 
prise a thorough knowledge of all the ordinary rules, 
together with practised and quick skill, my career in 
life could not be made at the Post-office. Going down 
the main stairs of the building — stairs which have, I be- 
lieve, been now pulled down to make room for sorters 
and staimpers, Clayton Freeling told me not to be too 
down-hearted. I was myself inclined to think that I 
had better go back to the school in Brussels. But nev- 
ertheless I went to work, and under the surveillance of 
my elder brother made a beautiful transcript of four or 
five pages of Gibbon. With a faltering heart I took 
these on the next day to the office. With my caligraphy 
I was contented, but was certain that I should come to 

2* 



34 Autohiography of Anthony Trollope. 

the ground among the figures. But when I got to 
" The Grand," as we used to call our office in those 
days, from its site in St. Martin's-le-Grand, I was seated 
at a desk without any further reference to my compe- 
tency. No one condescended even to look at my beau- 
tiful penmanship. 

That was the way in which candidates for the civil 
service were examined in my young days. It was, at 
any rate, the way in which I was examined. Since that 
time there has been a very great change indeed ; and 
in some respects a great improvement. But in regard 
to the absolute fitness of the young men selected for the 
public service, I doubt whether more harm has not been 
done than good. And I think that good might have 
been done without the harm. The rule of the present 
day is, that every place shall be open to public competi- 
tion, and that it shall be given to the best among the 
comers. I object to this, that at present there exists no 
known mode of learning who is best, and that the method 
employed has no tendency to elicit the best. That 
method pretends only to decide who among a certain 
number of lads will best answer a string of questions, 
for the answering of which they are prepared by tutors, 
who have sprung up for the purpose since this fashion 
of election has been adopted. When it is decided in a 
family that a boy shall "try the civil service," he is 
made to undergo a certain amount of cramming. But 
such treatment has, I maintain, no connection whatever 
with education. The lad is no better fitted after it than 
he was before for the future work of his life. But his 
very success fills him with false ideas of his own educa- 
tional standing, and so far unfits him. And, by the plan 



The General Post-office. 35 

now in vogue, it lias come to pass that no one is in truth 
responsible either for the conduct, the manners, or even 
for the character of the youth. The responsibility was, 
perhaps, slight before ; but existed, and was on the in- 
crease. 

There might have been— in some future time of still 
increased wisdom, there yet may be— a department es- 
tablished to test the fitness of acolytes without recourse to 
the dangerous optimism of competitive choice. I will 
not say but that there should have been some one to re- 
ject me— though I will have the hardihood to say that, 
had I been so rejected, the civil service would have lost 
a valuable public servant. This is a statement that will 
not, I think, be denied by those who, after I am gone, 
may remember anything of my work. Lads, no doubt, 
should not be admitted who have none of the small ac- 
quirements that are wanted. Our ofiices should not be 
schools in which writing and early lessons in geography, 
arithmetic, or French should be learned. But all that 
could be ascertained without the perils of competitive 
examination. 

The desire to insure the efficiency of the young men 
selected has not been the only object— perhaps not the 
chief object— of those who have yielded in this matter 
to the arguments of the reformers. There had arisen in 
England a system of patronage, under which it had be- 
come gradually necessary for politicians to use their in- 
fluence for the purchase of political support. A member 
of the House of Commons, holding office, who might 
chance to have five clerkships to give away in a year, 
found himself compelled to distribute them among those 
who sent him to the House. In this there was noth- 



36 Autdbiograjyhy of Anthony Trollojpe. 

iiig pleasant to the distributer of patronage. Do away 
with the system altogether, and he would have as nrmcli 
chance of support as another. He bartered his patron- 
age only because another did so also. The beggings, the 
refusings, the jealousies, the correspondence, were sim- 
ply troublesome. Gentlemen in office were not, therefore, 
indisposed to rid themselves of the care of patronage. 
I have no doubt their hands are the cleaner and their 
hearts are the lighter ; but I do doubt whether the offices 
are, on the whole, better manned. 

As what I now write will certainly never be read till 
I am dead, I maj^ dare to say what no one now does 
dare to say in print — though some of us whisper it 
occasionally into our friends' ears — there are places in 
life which can hardly be well iilled except by "gentle- 
men." The word is one the use of which almost subjects 
one to ignominy. If I say that a judge should be a 
gentleman, or a bishop, 1 am met with a scornful allu- 
sion to "nature's gentlemen." Were I to make such 
an assertion with reference to the House of Commons, 
nothing that I ever said again would receive the slight- 
est attention. A man in public life could not do him- 
self a greater injury than by saying in public that the 
commissions in the army or navy, or berths in the civil 
service, should be given exclusively to gentlemen. He 
would be defied to define the term, and would fail 
should he attempt to do so. But he would know what 
he meant, and so, very probably, would they who defied 
him. It may be that the son of the butcher of the 
village shall become as well fitted for employments re- 
quiring gentle culture as the son of the parson. Such 
is often the case. When such is the case, no one has 



The General Post-offiee. 37 

been more prone to give the butcher's son all the wel- 
come he has merited than myself; but the chances are 
greatly in favor of the parson's son. The gates of the 
one class should be open to the other ; but neither to 
the one class nor to the other can good be done by de- 
claring that there are no gates, no barrier, no difference. 
The system of competitive examination is, I think, based 
on a supposition that there is no difference. 

I got into my place without any examining. Look- 
ing back now, I think I can see with accuracy what was 
then the condition of my own mind and intelligence. 
Of things to be learned by lessons I knew almost less 
than could be supposed possible after the amount of 
schooling I had received. I could read neither French, 
Latin, nor Greek. I could speak no foreign language, 
and I may as well say here as elsewhere that I never 
acquired the power of really talking French. I have 
been able to order my dinner and take a railway ticket, 
but never got much beyond that. Of the merest rudi- 
ments of the sciences I was completely ignorant. My 
handwriting was, in truth, wretched. My spelling was 
imperfect. There was no subject as to which examina- 
tion would have been possible on which I could have 
gone through an examination otherwise than disgrace- 
fully. And yet I think I knew more than the average 
of young men of the same rank who began life at nine- 
teen. I could have given a fuller list of the names of 
the poets of all countries, with their subjects and periods 
— and probably of historians — than many others ; and 
had, perhaps, a more accurate idea of the manner in 
which my own country was governed. I knew the 
names of all the bishops, all the judges, all the heads 



38 Autobiography of Anthony Trollope. 

of colleges, and all the cabinet ministers — not a very 
useful knowledge, indeed^ but one that had not been ac- 
quired without other matter which w^as more useful. I 
had read Shakespeare and Byron and Scott, and could 
talk about them. The music of the Miltonic line was 
familiar to me. I had already made up my mind that 
"Pride and Prejudice" was the best novel in the English 
language — a palm which I only partially withdrew 
after a second reading of "Iva'nhoe,"and did not complete- 
ly bestow elsewhere till "Esmond" was written. And 
though I would occasionally break down in my spelling, 
I could write af letter. If I had a thing to say, I could 
so say it in written words that the readers should know 
what I meant — a power w^hich is by no means at the 
command of all those who come out from these com- 
petitive examinations wdth triumph. Early in life, at 
the age of fifteen, I had commenced the dangerous habit 
of keeping a journal, and this I maintained for ten ^^ears. 
The volumes remained in my possession unregarded — 
never looked at — till 1870, when I examined them, and, 
with many blushes, destroyed them. They convicted 
me of folly, ignorance, indiscretion, idleness, extrava- 
gance, and conceit. But they had habituated me to the 
rapid use of pen and ink, and taught me how to express 
myself with facility. 

I w^ill mention here another habit which had grown 
upon me from still earlier years — which I myself often 
regarded with dismay when I thought of the hours de- 
voted to it, but which, I suppose, must have tended to 
make me what I have been. As a boy, even as a child, 
I was thrown much upon myself. I have explained, 
when speaking of my school-days, how it came to pass 



The General Post-ofUce. 



39 



that other boys would not play with me. I was there- 
fore alone, and had to form my plays within myself. 
Play of some kind was necessary to me then, as it has 
always been. Study was not my bent, and I could not 
please myself by being all idle. Thus it came to pass 
that I was always going about with some castle in the 
air firmly built within my mind. Nor were these efforts 
in architecture spasmodic, or subject to constant change 
from day to day. For weeks, for months, if I remember 
rightly, from year to year, I would carry on the same 
tale, binding myself down to certain laws, to certain 
proportions, and proprieties, and unities. Nothing im- 
possible was ever introduced, nor even anything which, 
from outward circumstances, would seem to be violently 
improbable. I myself was, of course, my own hero. 
Such is a necessity of castle-building. But I never be- 
came a king, or a duke — much less, when my height and 
personal appearance were fixed, could I be an Antinous, 
or six feet high. I never was a learned man, nor even 
a philosopher. But I was a very clever person, and 
beautiful young women used to be fond of me. And I 
strove to be kind of heart, and open of hand, and noble 
in thought, despising mean things ; and altogether I was 
a very much better fellow than I have ever succeeded in 
being since. This had been the occupation of my life 
for six or seven years before I went to the Post-ofiice, 
and was by no means abandoned when I commenced 
my work. There can, I imagine, hardly be a more dan- 
gerous mental practice ; but I liave often doubted whether, 
had it not been my practice, I should ever have written a 
novel. I learned in this way to maintain an interest in 
a fictitious story, to dwell on a work created by my own 



40 Autdbiogrwphy of Anthony Trollope. 

iraaginatioD, and to live in a world altogether outside 
the world of my own material life. In after-years I 
have done the same, with this difference, that I have 
discarded the hero of my early dreams, and have been 
able to lay my own identity aside. 

I must certainly acknowledge that the first seven 
years of my ofiicial life were neither creditable to myself 
nor useful to the public service. These seven years 
were passed in London, and during this period of my 
life it was my duty to be present every morning at the 
office punctually at 10 a. m. I think I commenced my 
quarrels with the authorities there by having in my 
possession a watch which was always ten minutes late. 
I know that I very soon achieved a character for irreg- 
ularity, and came to be regarded as a black sheep by 
men around me who were not themselves, I think, very 
good public servants. From time to time rumors reached 
me that if I did not take care I should be dismissed ; 
especially one rumor, in my early days, through my dear- 
ly beloved friend Mrs. Clayton Freeling — who, as I 
write this, is still living, and who, with tears in her eyes, 
besought me to think of my mother. That was during 
the life of Sir Francis Freeling, who died — still in har- 
ness — a little more than twelve months after I joined 
the office. And yet the old man showed me signs of 
almost affectionate kindness, writing to me with his own 
hand more than once from his death-bed. 

Sir Francis Freeling was followed at the Post-office 
by Colonel Maberly, who certainly was not m}'- friend. 
I do not know that I deserved to find a friend in my 
new master, but I think that a man with better judg- 
ment would not have formed so low an opinion of me 



The General Post-office, 4^ 

as he did. Years have gone bj, and I can write now 
and ahnost feel, without anger; but I can remember 
well the keenness of my anguish when I was treated as 
though I were unfit for any useful work. I did struggle 
—not to do the work, for there was nothing which ''was 
not easy without any struggling, but to show that I was 
wilhng to do it. My bad character, nevertheless, stuck 
to me, and was not to be got rid of by any efforts within 
my power. I do admit that I was irregular. It was 
not considered to be much in my favor that I could 
write letters— which was mainly the work of our office 
—rapidly, correctly, and to the purpose. The man who 
came at ten, and who was always still at his desk at half- 
past four, was preferred before me, though when at his 
desk he might be less efficient. Such preference was, 
no doubt, proper; but, with a little encouragement, I 
also would have been punctual. I got credit for noth- 
ing, and was reckless. 

As it was, the conduct of some of us was very bad. 
There was a comfortable sitting-room up-stairs, devoted 
to the use of some one of our number who, in turn, was 
required to remain in the place all night. Hither one or 
two of us would adjourn after lunch, and play ecarU for 
an hour or two. I do not know whether such ways are 
possible now in our public offices. And here we used 
to have suppers and card-parties at night— great sym- 
posiums, with much smoking of tobacco ; for in our part 
of the building there lived a whole bevy of clerks. 
These were gentlemen whose duty it then was to make 
up and receive the foreign mails. I do not remember 
that they worked later or earlier than the other sorting- 
clerks; but there was supposed to be something special 



45 Autobiography of Anthomj Trollojye. 

in foreign letters, which required that the men who 
handled them should have minds undistracted by the 
outer world. Their salaries, too, were higher than those 
of their more homely brethren ; and they paid nothing 
for their lodgings. Consequently, there was a somewhat 
fast set in those apartments, given to cards and to tobacco, 
who drank spirits-and-water in preference to tea. I was 
not one of them, but was a good deal with them. 

I do not know that I should interest my readers by 
saying much of my Post-office experiences in those days. 
I was always on the eve of being dismissed, and yet was 
always striving to show how good a public servant I 
could become, if only a chance were given me. But 
the chance went the wrong way. On one occasion, in 
the performance of my duty, I had to put a private letter 
containing bank-notes on the secretary's table, which 
letter I had duly opened, as it was not marked Private. 
The letter was seen by the colonel, but had not been 
moved by him when he left the room. On his return 
it was gone. In the meantime 1 had returned to the 
room again, in the performance of some duty. When 
the letter was missed I was sent for, and there I found 
the colonel much moved about his letter, and a certain 
chief clerk, who, with a long face, was making sugges- 
tions as to the probable fate of the money. " The letter 
has been taken," said the colonel, turning to me angrily, 
"and, by G — ! there has been nobody in the room 
but you and T." As he spoke, he thundered his fist 
down upon the table. '' Then," said I, " by G — ! you 
have taken it," and I also thundered my fist down — 
but, accidentally, not upon the table. There was there 
a standing movable desk, at which, I presume, it was the 



The General Post-office. 43 

colonel's habit to write, and on this movable desk was a 
large bottlefiil of ink. My fist unfortunately came on 
the desk, and the ink at once flew up, covering the col- 
onel's face and shirt-front. Then it was a sight to see 
that senior clerk, as he seized a quire of blotting-paper, 
and rushed to the aid of his superior officer, striving to 
mop up the ink ; and a sight also to see the colonel, in 
his agony, hit right out through the blotting-paper at 
that senior clerk's unoffending stomach. At that mo- 
ment there came in the colonel's private secretary, with 
the letter and the money, and I was desired to go back 
to my own room. This was an incident not much in 
my favor, though I do not know that it did me special 
harm. 

I was always in trouble. A young woman down in 
the country had taken it into her head that she would 
like to marry me, and a very foolish young woman she 
must have been to entertain such a wish, I need not 
tell that part of the story more at length, otherwise than 
by protesting that no young man in such a position was 
ever much less to blame than I had been in this. The 
invitation had come from her, and I had lacked the 
pluck to give it a decided negative ; but I had left the 
house within half an hour, going away without my din- 
ner, and had never returned to it. Then there was a 
correspondence — if that can be called a correspondence 
in which all the letters came from one side. At last 
the mother appeared at the Post-office. My hair almost 
stands on my head now as I remember the figure of the 
woman walking into the big room in which I sat with 
six or seven other clerks, having a large basket on her 
arm and an immense bonnet on her head. The messen- 



44 Autobiography of Anthony Trolloj^e. 

ger had vainly endeavored to persuade her to remain in 
the anteroom. She followed tlie man in, and, walking 
up the centre of the room, addressed me in a loud voice : 
" Anthony Trollope, when are you going to marry my 
daughter ?" We have all had our worst moments, and 
that was one of my w^orst. I lived through it, however, 
and did not marry the young lady. These little inci- 
dents were all against me in the office. 

And then a certain other phase of my private life 
crept into official view, and did me a damage. As I 
shall explain just now, I rarely at this time had any 
money wherewith to pay my bills. In this state of 
things a certain tailor had taken from me an acceptance 
for, I think, £12, which found its w\ay into the hands of 
a money-lender. With that man, who lived in a little 
street near Mecklenburgh Square, I formed a most 
heartrending but a most intimate acquaintance. In 
cash I once received from him £4. For that and for 
the original amount of the tailor's bill, which grew mon- 
strously under repeated renewals, I paid ultimately 
something over £200. That is so common a story as to 
be hardly worth the telling ; but the peculiarity of this 
man was that he became so attached to me as to visit 
me every day at my office. For a long period he found 
it to be worth his while to walk up those stone steps 
daily, and come and stand behind my chair, whispering 
to me always the same words : " Now I wish you would 
be punctual. If you only would be punctual, I should 
like you to have anything you want." He was a little, 
clean old man, who always wore a high, starched, white 
cravat, inside which he had a habit of twisting his chin 
as he uttered his caution. When I remember the con- 



I 



The General Post-office. 45 

stant persistency of his visits, I cannot but feel that he 
was paid very badly for his time and trouble. Tliose 
visits were very terrible, and can hardly have been of 
service to me in the office. 

Of one other misfortune which liappened to me in 
those days I must tell the tale. A junior clerk in the 
secretary's office was always told off to sleep upon the 
premises, and he was supposed to be the presiding gen- 
ius of the establishment when the other members of the 
secretary's department had left the building. On an 
occasion when I was still little more than a lad, perhaps 
one-and-twenty years old, I was filling this responsible 
position. At about seven in the evening word was 
brought to me that the Queen of, I think, Saxony, but I 
am sure it was a queen, wanted to see the night mails 
sent out. At this time, when there were many mail- 
coaches, this was a show, and august visitors would 
sometimes come to see it. But preparation was gener- 
ally made beforehand, and some pundit of the office 
would be at hand to do the honors. On this occasion 
we were taken by surprise, and there was no pundit. I 
therefore gave the orders, and accompanied her majesty 
around the building, walking backwards, as I conceived 
to be proper, and often in great peril as I did so, up and 
down the stairs. I was, however, quite satisfied with 
my own manner of performing an unaccustomed and 
most important duty. There were two old gentlemen 
with her majesty, who, no doubt, were German barons, 
and an ancient baroness also. They had come and, when 
they had seen the sights, took their departure in two 
glass coaches. As they were preparing to go I saw the 
two barons consulting together in deep whispers, and 



46 Aidobiograjphy of Anthony Trollojpe. 

then as the result of that conversation one of them hand- 
ed me a half-crown ! That also was a bad moment. 

I came up to town, as I said before, purporting to live 
a jolly life upon £90 per annum. I remained seven 
years in the General Post-office, and when I left it my 
income was £140. During the whole of this time I 
was hopelessly in debt. There were two intervals, 
amounting together to nearly two years, in which I 
lived with my mother, and therefore lived in comfort — 
but even then I was overwhelmed with debt. She paid 
much for me — paid all that I asked her to pay, and all 
that she could find out that I owed. But who in such 
a condition ever tells all and makes a clean breast of it ? 
The debts, of course, were not large, but I cannot think 
now how I could have lived, and sometimes have en- 
joyed life, with such a burden of duns as I endured. 
Sheriff's officers, with uncanny documents, of which I 
never understood anything, were common attendants on 
me. And yet I do not remember that I was ever locked 
up, though I think I was twice a prisoner. In such 
emergencies some one paid for me. And now, looking 
back at it, I have to ask myself whether my youth was 
very wicked. I did no good in it; but was there fair 
ground for expecting good from me ? When I reached 
London no mode of life was prepared for me— no ad- 
vice even given to me. I went into lodgings, and then 
had to dispose of my time. I belonged to no club, and 
knew very few friends who would receive me into their 
houses. In such a condition of life a young man should, 
no doubt, go home after his work, and spend the long 
liours of the evenino^ in readins: £:ood books and drink- 
ing tea. A lad brought up by strict parents, and with- 



The General Post-office. 47 

out having had even a view of gayer things, might per- 
haps do so. I had passed all my life at public schools, 
where I had seen gay things, but had never enjoyed 
them. Towards the o^ood books and tea no trainins: had 
been given me. There was no house in which I could 
habitually see a lady's face and hear a lady's voice. No 
allurement to decent respectability came in my w^ay. It 
seems to me that in such circumstances the temptations 
of loose life will almost certainly prevail with a young 
man. / Of course, if the mind be strong enough, and the/ 
general stuff knitted together of sufficiently stern ma- / 
terial, the temptations will not prevail. But such mindsy 
and such material are, 1 think, uncommon. The temp^ 
tation, at any rate, prevailed with me. 

I wonder how many 3^oung men fall utterly to pieces 
from being turned loose into London after the same 
fashion. Mine was, I think, of all phases of such life 
the most dangerous. The lad who is sent to mechani- 
cal work has longer hours, during which he is kept from 
danger, and has not generally been taught in his boy- 
hood to anticipate pleasure. He looks for hard work 
and grinding circumstances. I certainly had enjoyed 
but little pleasure, but I had been among those who did 
enjoy it and were taught to expect it. And I had filled 
my mind with the ideas of such joys. And now, ex- 
cept during official hours, I was entirely without con- 
trol — without the influences of any decent household 
around me. I have said something of the comedy of 
such life, but it certainly had its tragic aspect. Turn- 
ing it all over in my own mind, as I have constantly 
done in after-years, the tragedy has always been upper- 
most. And so it was as the time was passing. Could 



48 Autobiograjpliy of Anthony Trdlo^e. 

there be any escape from such dirt? I would ask my- 
self; and 1 always answered that there was no escape. 
The mode of life was itself wretched. I hated the 
office. I hated my work. More then all I hated my 
idleness. I had often told myself since I left school 
that the only career in life within my reach was that of 
an author, and the only mode of authorship open to me 
tliat of a writer of novels. In the journal which I read 
and destroyed a few years since, I found the matter 
argued out before I had been in the Post-office two years. 
Parliament was out of the question. I had not means 
to so to the Bar. In official life, such as that to which 
I had been introduced, there did not seem to be any 
opening for real success. Pens and paper I could com- 
mand. Poetry I did not believe to be within my grasp. 
The drama, too, which I would fain have chosen, I be- 
lieved to be above me. For history, biography, or essay 
writing I had not sufficient erudition. But I thought 
it possible that I might write a novel. I had resolved 
very early that in that shape must the attempt be made. 
But the months and years ran on, and no attempt was 
made. And yet no day was passed without thoughts of 
attempting, and a mental acknowledgment of the disgrace 
of postponing it. What reader will not understand the 
agony of remorse produced by such a condition of mind ? 
The gentleman from Mecklenburgh Square was always 
with me in the morning — always angering me by his 
hateful presence — but when the evening came I could 
make no struggle towards getting rid of him. 

In those days I read a little, and did learn to read 
French and Latin. I made myself familiar with Hor- 
ace, and became acquainted with the works of our own 



The General Post-office. 49 

greatest poets. I had my strong enthusiasms, and re- 
member throwing out of the window in Northumber- 
Land Street, where I lived, a voUime of Johnson's " Lives 
of the Poets," because he spoke sneeringly of Lycidas. 
That was Northumberland Street by tlie Marylebone 
Workhouse, on to the back-door of which establishment 
my room looked out — a most dreary abode, at which I 
fancy I must have almost ruined the good-natured 
lodging-house keeper by my constant inabihty to pay 
her what I owed. 

How I got my daily bread I can hardly remember, 
but I do remember that I was often nnable to get my- 
self a dinner. Young men generally now have their 
meals provided for them. I kept house, as it were. 
Every day I had to find myself with the day's food. 
For my breakfast I could get some credit at the lodg- 
ings, though that credit would frequently come to an 
end. But for all that I had often breakfast to pay 
day by day ; and at your eating-house credit is not 
given. I had no friends on whom I could sponge reg- 
ularly. Out on tlie Fulham Eoad I had an uncle, but 
his house was four miles from the Post-office, and al- 
most as far from my own lodgings. Then came bor- 
rowings of money, sometimes absolute want, and almost 
constant misery. 

Before 1 tell how it came about that I left this wretch- 
ed life, I must say a word or two of the friendships 
which lessened its misfortunes. My earliest friend in 
life was John Merivale, with whom I had been at school 
at Sunbury and Harrow, and who was a nephew of my 
tutor, Harry Drury. Herman Merivale, who afterwards 
became my friend, was liis brother, as is also Charles 



50 Autobiography of Antho7iy Trollope. 

Merivale, the historian, and Dean of Ely. I knew John 
when I was ten years old, and am happy to be able to 
say that he is going to dine with me one day this week. 
I hope I may not injure his character by stating that in 
those days I lived very much with him. He, too, was 
impecunious, but he had a home in London, and knew 
but little of the sort of penury which I endured. For 
more than fifty years he and I have been close friends. 
And then there was one W A , whose misfor- 
tunes in life will not permit me to give his full name, 
but whom I dearly loved. He had been at Winchester 
and at Oxford, and at both places had fallen into trouble. 
He then became a schoolmaster — or, perhaps, I had bet- 
ter say usher — and finally he took orders. But he was 
unfortunate in all things, and died some years ago in 
poverty. He was most perverse ; bashful to very fear 
of a lady's dress ; unable to restrain himself in anything, 
but yet with a conscience that was always stinging him ; 
a loving friend, though very quarrelsome ; and, perhaps, 
of all men I have known, the most humorous. And he 
was entirely unconscious of his own humor. He did 
not know that he could so handle all matters as to create 

infinite amusement out of them. Poor W A ! 

To him there came no happy turning-point at which life 
loomed seriously on him, and then became prosperous. 

"W A , Merivale, and I formed a little club, 

which we called the Tramp Society, and subjected to 
certain rules, in obedience to which we wandered on 
foot about the counties adjacent to London. South- 
ampton was the farthest point we ever reached ; but 
Buckino-hamshire and Hertfordshire were more dear to 
us. These were the happiest hours of my then life — 



The General Post-office. 51 

and perhaps not the least innocent, although we were 
frequently in peril from the village authorities wiioui 
w^e outraged. E'ot to pay for any conveyance, never to 
spend above five shillings a day, to obey all orders from 
the elected ruler of the hour (this enforced under heavy 
fines), were among our statutes. I would fain tell here 
some of our adventures: how A enacted an es- 
caped madman and we his pursuing keepers, and so got 
ourselves a lift in a cart, from which we ran away as we 
approached the lunatic asylum ; how we were turned 
out of a little town at night, the townsfolk frightened 
by the loudness of our mirth; and how we once crept 
into a hayloft and were wakened in the dark morning 
by a pitchfork — and how the juvenile owner of that 
pitchfork fled through the window when he heard the 
complaints of the w^ounded man ! But the fun was the 

fun of W A , and w^ould cease to be fun as 

told by me. 

It was during these years that John Tilley, who has 
now been for many years the permanent senior officer 
of the Post-office, married my sister, whom he took with 
him into Cumberland, where he was stationed as one of 
our surveyors. He has been my friend for more than 
forty years ; as has also Peregrine Birch, a clerk in the 
House of Lords, who married one of those daughters of 
Colonel Grant w^ho assisted us in the raid we made on 
the goods which had been seized by the sheriff's officer 
at Harrow. These have been the oldest and dearest 
friends of my life ; and I can thank God that three of 
them are still alive. 

When I had been nearly seven years in the secretary's 
office of the Post-office, always hating my position there, 



52 A%it6biogro/phy of Anthony Trollope. 

and yet always fearing that I should be dismissed from 
it, there came a way of escape. There had latterly been 
created in the service a new body of officers called sur- 
veyors' clerks. There were at that time seven survey- 
ors in England, two in Scotland, and three in Ireland. 
To each of these officers a clerk had been lately at- 
tached, whose duty it was to travel about the country 
nnder the surveyor's orders. There had been much 
doubt among the young men in the office whether they 
should or should not apply for these places. The emol- 
uments were good and the work alluring ; but there was 
at first supposed to be something derogatory in the 
position. There was a rumor that the first surveyor 
who got a clerk sent the clerk out to fetch his beer; 
and that another had called upon his clerk to send the 
linen to the wash. There was, however, a conviction 
that nothing could be worse than the berth of a sur- 
veyor's clerk in Ireland. The clerks were all appointed, 
however. To me it had not occurred to ask for any. 
thing, nor would anything have been given me. But 
after a while there came a report from the far west of 
Ireland that the man sent there was absurdly incapable. 
It was probably thought then that none but a man ab- 
surdly incapable would go on such a mission to the west 
of Ireland. AYhen the report reached the London office 
I was the first to read it. I was at that time in dire 
trouble, having debts on my head and quarrels with our 
secretary-colonel, and a full conviction that my life 
was taking me downwards to the lowest pits. So I 
went to the colonel boldly, and volunteered for Ireland 
if he would send me. He was glad to be so rid of me, 
and I went. This happened in August, 1841, when I 



The General Post-office. 53 

was twenty-six years old. My salary in Ireland was to 
be but £100 a year; but I was to receive lifteen shil- 
lings a day for every day that I was away from home, 
and sixpence for every mile that I travelled. The same 
allowances were made in England; but at that time 
travelling in Ireland was done at half the English 
prices. My income in Ireland, after paying my expen- 
ses, became at once £400. This was the first good fort- 
une of my life. 



54 Autobiograjphy of Anthony Trollope. 



Chapter IY. 
IRELAND.— MY FIRST TWO NOVELS. 

1841-1848. 

In the preceding pages I have given a short record 
of the first twenty-six years of my life, years of suffer- 
ing, disgrace, and inward remorse. I fear that my mode 
of telling will have left an idea simply of their absurdi- 
ties ; but in truth I was wretched, sometimes almost 
unto death, and have often cursed the hour in which I 
was born. There had clung to me a feeling that I had 
been looked upon always as an evil, an encumbrance, a 
useless thing, as a creature of wliom those connected 
with him had to be ashamed. And I feel certain now 
that in my young days I was so regarded. Even my 
few friends, who had found with me a certain capacity 
for enjoyment, were half afraid of me. I acknowledge 
the weakness of a great desire to be loved, of a strong 
wish to be popular with my associates, l^o child, no 
boy, no lad, no young man, had ever been less so. And 
I had been so poor ; and so little able to bear poverty. 
But from the day on which I set my foot in Ireland all 
these evils went away from me. Since that time who 
has had a happier life than mine ? Looking round 
upon all those I know, I cannot put my hand upon one. 
But all is not over yet. And, mindful of that, remem- 
bering how great is the agony of adversity, how crush- 



Ireland. 55 

ing the despondency of degradation, how susceptible I 
am myself to the misery coming from contempt, re- 
membering also how quickly good things may go and 
evil things come, I am often again tempted to hope, 
almost to pray, that the end may be near. Things may 
be going well now : ^vi/ 

"Sin aliquem infandum casnm, Fortuna, minaris; 
Nunc, o nunc liceat crudelem abrumpere vitam." 

There is un happiness so great that the very fear of it 
is an alloy to happiness. I had then lost my father, 
and sister, and brother, have since lost another sister 
and my mother ; but I have never as yet iost a wife or 
a child. 

AYhen I told my friends that I was going on this 
mission to Ireland they shook their heads, but said 
nothing to dissuade me. I think it must have been 
evident to all who were my friends that my life in Lon- 
don was not a success. My mother and elder brother 
were at this time abroad, and were not consulted ; did 
not even know my intention in time to protest against 
it. Indeed, I consulted no one, except a dear old cousin, 
our family lawyer, from whom I borrowed £200 to help 
me out of England. He lent me the money, and looked 
upon me with pitying eyes, shaking his head. " After 
all, you were right to go," he said to me when I paid 
him the money a few years afterwards. 

But nobody then thought I was right to go. To be- 
come clerk to an Irish surveyor, in Connaught, with a 
salary of £100 a year, at twenty-six years of age ! I 
did not think it right even myself, except that anything 
was right which would take me away from the General 
Post-office and from London. 



56 A^doblography of Anthony Trolloj^e. 

My ideas of the duties I was to perform were very 
vague, as were also my ideas of Ireland generally. Hith- 
erto I had passed my time seated at a desk, either writ- 
ing letters myself, or copying into books those which 
others had written. I had never been called upon to 
do anything I was unable or unfitted to do. I now un- 
derstood that in Ireland I was to be a deputy-inspector 
of country post-offices, and that among other things to 
be inspected would be the postmasters' accounts ! But 
as no other person asked a question as to my fitness for 
this work, it seemed unnecessary for me to do so. 

On the 15th of September, 1841, 1 landed in Dublin, 
without an acquaintance in the country, and with only 
two or three letters of introduction from a brother clerk 
in the Post-office. I had learned to think that Ireland 
was a land flowing with fun and whiskej^, in which ir- 
regularity was the rule of life, and where broken heads 
were looked upon as honorable badges. I was to live 
at a place called Banagher, on the Shannon, which I 
had heard of because of its having once been conquered, 
though it had heretofore conquered everything, includ- 
ing the devil. And from Banagher my inspecting tours 
were to be made, chiefly into Con naught, but also over 
a strip of country eastwards, which would enable me 
occasionally to run up to Dublin. I went to a hotel, 
which was very dirty, and after dinner I ordered some 
whiskey punch. There was an excitement in this, but 
when the punch was gone I was very dull. It seemed 
so strange to be in a country in which there was not a 
single individual whom I had ever spoken to or ever 
seen. And it was to be my destiny to go down into 
Connaught and adjust accounts, the destiny of me, who 



Ireland, 57 

had never learned the multiplication table, or done a 
sum in long division ! 

On the next morning I called on the secretary of the 
Irish Post-office, and learned from him that Colonel 
Maberly had sent a very bad character with me. He 
could not have sent a very good one ; but I felt a little 
hurt when I was informed by this new master that he 
had been informed that I was worthless, and must in 
all probability be distnissed. " But," said the new mas- 
ter, " I shall judge you by your own merits." From 
that time to the day on which I left the service I never 
heard a word of censure, nor had many months passed 
before I found that my services were valued. Before 
a year was over I had acquired the character of a thor- 
oughly good public servant. 

The time went very pleasantly. Some adventures I 
had ; two of which I told in the ^' Tales of All Coun- 
tries," under the names of " The O'Conors of Castle 
Conor," and "Father Giles of Ballymoy." I will not 
swear to every detail in these stories, but the main pur- 
port of each is true. I could tell many others of the 
same nature, were this the place for them. I found 
that the surveyor to whom I had been sent kept a pack 
of hounds, and therefore I bought a kunter. I do not 
think he liked it, but he could not well complain. He 
never rode to hounds himself, but I did ; and then and 
thus began one of the great joys of my life. I have 
ever since been constant to the sport, having learned to 
love it with an affection which I cannot myself fathom 
or understand. Surely no man has labored at it as I 
have done, or hunted under such drawbacks as to dis- 
tances, money, and natural disadvantages. I am very 

3* 



58 Autdbiograj)hy of Anthony TroUojpe. 

heavy, very blind, have been — in reference to hunting 
— a poor man, and am now an old man. I have often 
had to travel all night outside a mail-coach, in order 
that I might Juint the next day. Nor have I ever been 
in truth a good horseman. And I have passed the greater 
part of my hunting life under the discipline of the 
civil service. But it has been for more than thiiiy 
years a duty to me to ride to hounds; and I have per- 
formed that duty with a persistent energy. Nothing 
has ever been allowed to stand in the way of hunting, 
neither the writing of books, nor the w^ork of the Post- 
office, nor other pleasures. As regarded the Post-office, 
it soon seemed to be understood that I was to hunt ; 
and when my services were retransferred to England, 
no word of difficulty ever reached me about it. I have 
written on very many subjects, and on most of them 
with pleasure; but on no subject with such delight as 
that on hunting. I have dragged it into many novels, 
into too many, no doubt, but I have always felt myself 
deprived of a legitimate joy when the nature of the 
tale has not allowed me a hunting chapter. Perhaps 
that which gave me the greatest delight was the de- 
scription of a run on a horse accidentally taken from 
another sportsman, a circumstance which occurred to 
my dear friend Charles Buxton, who will be remem- 
bered as one of the members for Surrey. 

It was altogether a very jolly life that I led in Ire- 
land. I was always moving about, and soon found my- 
self to be in pecuniary circumstances which were opu- 
lent in comparison with those of my past life. The 
Irish people did not murder me, nor did they even break 
my head. I soon found them to be good-humored, 



Ireland. 59 

clever — the working classes very mncli more intelligent 
than those of England — economical, and hospitable. 
We hear much of their spendthrift nature ; but extrava- 
gance is not the nature of an Irishman. He will count 
the shillings in a pound much more accurately than an 
Englishman, and will with much more certainty get 
twelve pennyworth from each. But they are perverse, 
irrational, and but little bound by the love of truth. I 
lived for many years among them — not finally leaving 
the country until 1859, and I had the means of study- 
ing their character. 

1 had not been a fortnight in Ireland before I was 
sent down to a little town in the far w^est of County 
Galway, to balance a defaulting postmaster's accounts, 
find out how much he owed, and report upon his ca- 
pacity to pay. In these days such accounts are very 
simple. They adjust themselves from day to day, and 
a Post-ofiice surveyor has nothing to do with them. At 
that time, though the sums dealt with were small, the 
forms of dealing with them were very intricate. I 
went to work, however, and made that defaulting post- 
master teach me the use of those forms. I then suc- 
ceeded in balancing the account, and had no difiiculty 
whatever in reporting that he was altogether unable to 
pay his debt. Of course, he was dismissed ; but he had 
been a very useful man to me. I never had any fur- 
ther difiiculty in the matter. 

But my chief work was the investigating of com- 
plaints made by the public as to postal matters. The 
practice of the ofiice was and is to send one of its ser- 
vants to the spot to see the complainant and to inquire 
into the facts, when the complainant is sufficiently ener- 



60 Autobiography of Anthony Trollape, 

getic or sufficiently big to make himself well heard. A 
great expense is often incurred for a very small object ; 
but the system works well on the whole, as confidence 
is engendered, and a feeling is produced in the country 
that the department has eyes of its own and does keep 
them open. This employment was very pleasant, and 
to me always easy, as it required at its close no more 
than the writing of a report. There were no accounts 
in this business, no keeping of books, no necessary ma- 
nipulation of multitudinous forms. I must tell of one 
such complaint and inquiry, because in its result I think 
it was emblematic of many. 

A gentleman in County Cavan had complained most 
bitterly of the injury done to him by some arrangement 
of the Post-office. The nature of his grievance has no 
present significance; but it was so unendurable that he 
had written many letters, couched in the strongest lan- 
guage. He was most irate, and indulged himself in that 
scorn which is so easy to an angry mind. The place 
was not in my district, but I was borrowed, being young 
and strong, that I might remove the edge of his per- 
sonal wrath. It was mid-winter, and I drove up to his 
house — a squire's country-seat — in the middle of a snow- 
storm, just as it was becoming dark. I was on an open 
jaunting-car, and was on my way from one little town 
to another, the cause of his complaint having reference 
to some mail conveyance between the two. I was cer- 
tainly ver}^ cold, and very wet, and very uncomfortable 
when I entered his house. I was admitted by a butler, 
but the gentleman himself hurried into the hall. I at 
once began to explain my business. " God bless me !" 
he said, ^' you are wet through. John, get Mr. Trollope 



Ireland. 61 

some brandy-and-water — very hot." I was beginning 
my story about the post again when he himself took off 
my greatcoat, and suggested that I should go up to my 
bedroom before I troubled myself with business. " Bed- 
room !" I exclaimed. Then he assured me that he 
w^ould not turn a dog out on such a night as that, and 
into a bedroom I was shown, having first drank the 
brandy-and-water standing at the drawing-room fire. 
When I came down I was introduced to his daughter, 
and the three of us went in to dinner. I shall never 
forget his righteous indignation when I again brought 
up the postal question on the departure of the young 
lady. Was I such a Goth as to contaminate wine with 
business? So I drank m^ wine, and then heard the 
young lady sing, while her father slept in his arm-chair. 
I spent a very pleasant evening, but my host was too 
sleepy to hear anything about the Post-ofiice that night. 
It was absolutely necessary that I should go away the 
next morning after breakfast, and I explained that the 
matter must be discussed then. He shook his head and 
WTung his hands in unmistakable disgust — almost in 
despair. "But what am I to say in my report?" I 
asked. "Anything you please," he said. "Don't spare 
me, if you want an excuse for yourself. Here I sit all 
the day, with nothing to do ; and I like writing letters." 

I did report that Mr. was now quite satisfied with 

the postal arrangement of his district, and I felt a soft 
regret that I should have robbed my friend of his occu- 
pation. Perhaps he was able to take up the Poor-law 
Board, or to attack the Excise. At the Post - ofiice 
nothing more was heard from him. 
I went on with the hunting surveyor at Banagherfor 



63 Autobiography of Anthony Trollojpe, 

three years, during which, at Kingstown, the watering- 
place near Dublin, I met Eose Heseltine, the lady who 
has since become my wife. The engagement took place 
when I had been just one year in Ireland, but there was 
still a delay of two years before w^e could be married. 
She had no fortune, nor had I any income beyond that 
which came from the Post-office; and there were still 
a few debts, which would have been paid off, no doubt, 
sooner but for that purchase of the horse. When I had 
been nearly three years in Ireland we were married, on 
the 11th of June, 1844 ; and perhaps I ought to name 
that happy day as the commencement of my better life, 
rather than the day on which I first landed in Ireland. 

For though during these three years I had been jolly 
enough, I had not been altogether happy. The hunt- 
ing, the whiskey punch, the rattling Irish life — of which 
I could write a volume of stories were this the place to 
tell them — were continually driving from my mind the 
still-cherished determination to become a writer of nov- 
els. AVhen I reached Ireland I had never put pen to 
paper, nor had I done so when I became engaged. And 
when I was married, being then twenty-nine, I had only 
written the first volume of my first work. This con- 
stant putting off of the day of work was a great sorrow 
to me. I certainly had not been idle in my new berth. 
I had learned my work, so that every one concerned 
knew that it was safe in my hands ; and I held a posi- 
tion altogether the reverse of that in which I was alwaj^s 
trembling while I remained in London. But that did 
not suffice — did not nearly suffice. I still felt that there 
might be a career before me, if I could only bring my- 
self to begin the work. I do not think I much doubted 



My First Two Novels. 63 

mj own intellectual sufficiency for the writing of a read- 
able novel. What I did doubt was my own industry, 
and the chances of the market. 

The vigor necessary to prosecute two professions at 
the same time is not given to every one, and it was only 
lately that I had found the vigor necessary for one. 
There must be early hours, and I had not as yet learned 
to love early hours. I was still, indeed, a young man ; 
but hardly young enough to trust myself to find the 
power to alter the habits of my life. And I had heard 
of the difficulties of publishing — a subject of which I 
shall have to say much should I ever bring this memoir 
to a close. I had dealt already with publishers on my 
mother's behalf, and knew that many a tyro who could 
fill a manuscript lacked the power to put his matter be- 
fore the public ; and I knew, too, that when the matter 
was printed, how little had then been done towards the 
winning of the battle ! I had already learned that many 
a book — many a good book — 

' ' is born to blush unseen, 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air." 

But still the purpose was strong within me, and the 
first effort was made after the following fashion. I was 
located at a little town called Drumsna, or, rather, vil- 
lage, in the County Leitrim, where the postmaster had 
come to some sorrow about his money ; and my friend 
John Merivale was staying wdth me for a day or two. 
As we were taking a walk in that most uninteresting 
country, w^e turned up through a deserted gateway, 
along a weedy, grass-grown avenue, till we came to the 
modern ruins of a country-house. It was one of the 
most melancholy spots I ever visited. I will not de- 



64 Autobiography of Anthony Trollope. 

scribe it here, because I have done so in the first chapter 
of my first noveL We wandered about the place, sug- 
gesting to each other causes for the misery we saw there, 
and while I was still among the ruined walls and de- 
cayed beams I fabricated the plot of " The Macdermots 
of Ballycloran." As to the plot itself, I do not know 
that I ever made one so good — or, at any rate, one so 
susceptible of pathos. I am aware that I broke down 
in the telling, not having yet studied the art. ISTever- 
theless, " The Macdermots " is a good novel, and worth 
reading by any one who wishes to understand what 
Irish life w^as before the potato disease, the famine, and 
the Encumbered Estates Bill. 

"When my friend left me, I set to work and wrote? the 
first chapter or two. Up to this time I had continued 
that practice of castle-building of which I liave spoken, 
but now the castle I built was among the ruins of that 
old house. The book, however, hung with me. It was 
only now and then that I found either time or energy 
for a few pages. I commenced the book in September, 
1843, and had only written a volume when I was mar- 
ried, in June, 1844. 

My marriage was like the marriage of other people, 
and of no special interest to any one except my wife 
and me. It took place at Rotherham, in Yorkshire, 
where her father was the manager of a bank. "We were 
not very rich, having about £400 a year on which to 
live. Many people would say that we were two fools 
to encounter such poverty together. I can only reply 
that since that day I have never been without money 
in my pocket, and that I soon acquired the means of 
paying what I owed. Nevertheless, more than twelve 



My First Two Novels. 65 

years had to pass over onr heads before I received any 
payment for any literary work which afforded an appre- 
ciable increase to our income. 

Immediately after our marriage I left the west of 
Ireland and the hunting surveyor, and joined another 
in the south. It was a better district, and I was ena- 
bled to live at Clonmel, a town of some importance, in- 
stead of at Banagher, which is little more than a village. 
I had not felt myself to be comfortable in my old resi- 
dence, as a married man. On my arrival there as a 
bachelor I had been received most kindly, but when I 
brought my English wife I fancied that there was a 
feeling that I had behaved badly to Ireland generally. 
When a young man has been received hospitably in an 
Irish circle, I will not say that it is expected of him that 
he should marry some young lady in that society — but 
it certainly is expected of him that he shall not marry 
any young lady out of it. I had given offence, and I 
was made to feel it. 

Tliere has taken place a great change in Ireland since 
the days in which I lived at Banagher, and a change so 
much for the better that I have sometimes wondered at 
the obduracy with which people have spoken of the 
permanent ill condition of the country. "Wages are now 
nearly double what they were then. The Post-office, 
at any rate, is paying almost double for its rural labor — 
9^. a week where it used to pay 65., and 12^. a week 
where it used to pay Is. Banks have sprung up in al- 
most every village. Rents are paid with more than 
English punctuality. And the religious enmity between 
the classes, though it is not yet dead, is dying out. Soon 
after I reached Banagher in 1841, 1 dined one evening 



66 AiUobiography of Anthony Trollope. 

with a Roman Catholic. I was informed next day, bj a 
Protestant gentleman who had been very hospitable to 
me, that I must choose my party. I could not sit both 
at Protestant and Catholic tables. Such a caution would 
now be impossible in any part of Ireland. Home-rule, 
no doubt, is a nuisance; and especially a nuisance be- 
cause the professors of the doctrine do not at all believe 
it themselves. There are, probably, no other twenty men 
in England or Ireland who would be so utterly dum- 
founded and prostrated were Home-rule to have its way 
as the twenty Irish members who profess to support it 
in the House of Commons. But it is not to be expect- 
ed that nuisances such as these should be abolished at a 
blow. Home-rule is, at any rate, better and more easily 
managed than the rebellion at the close of the last cen- 
tury ; it is better than the treachery of the Union ; less 
troublesome than O'Connell's monster meetings; less 
dangerous than Smith O'Brien and the battle of the 
cabbage-garden at Ballingarry, and very much less bloody 
than Fenianism. The descent from O'Connell to Mr. 
Butt has been the natural declension of a political dis- 
ease, which we had no right to hope would be cured by 
any one remedy. 

When I had been married a year my first, novel was 
finished. In July, 1845, I took it with me to the 
north of England, and intrusted the manuscript to my 
mother, to do with it the best she could among the 
publishers in London. No one had read it but my 
wife ; nor, as far as I am aware, has any other friend 
of mine ever read a word of my writing before it was 
printed. She, I think, has so read almost everything, 
to my very great advantage in matters of taste. I am 



My First Two Novels. 67 

sure I have never asked a friend to read a line ; nor 
have I ever read a word of my own writing aloud, even 
to her. With one exception — which shall be men- 
tioned as I come to it — I have never consulted a friend 
as to a plot, or spoken to any one of the work I have 
been doing. My first manuscript I gave np to my 
mother, agreeing wdth her that it would be as w^ell that 
she should not look at it before she gave it to a pub- 
lisher. I knew that she did not give me credit for the 
sort of cleverness necessary for sucli w^ork. I could 
see in the faces and hear in the voices of those of my 
friends who wxre around me at the house in Cumber- 
land — my mother, my sister, my brother-in-law, and, I 
think, my brother — that they had not expected me to 
come out as one of the family authors. There were 
three or four in the field before me, and it seemed to 
be almost absurd that another should wish to add him- 
self to the number. My father had written much — 
those long ecclesiastical descriptions — quite unsuccess- 
fully. My mother had become one of the popular au- 
thors of the day. My brother had commenced, and 
had been fairly well paid for his work. My sister, 
Mrs. Tilley, had also written a novel, which was at the 
time in manuscript — which was published afterwards 
without her name, and was called " Chollerton." I 
could perceive that this attempt of mine was felt to be 
an unfortunate aggravation of the disease. 

My mother, however, did the best she could for me, 
and soon reported that Mr. Newby, of Mortimer Street, 
was to publish the book. It was to be printed at his 
expense, and he was to give me half the profits. Half 
the profits ! Many a young author expects much from 



68 Autobiograjphy of Anthony Trollojpe. 

such an undertaking. I can with truth declare that I 
expected nothing. And I got nothing. Nor did I ex- 
pect fame, or even acknowledgment. I was sure that 
the book would fail, and it did fail most absolutely. I 
never heard of a person reading it in those days. If 
there was any notice taken of it by any critic of the 
day, I did not see it. I never asked any questions 
about it, or wrote a single letter on the subject to the 
publisher. I have Mr. ]S"ewby's agreement with me, 
in duplicate, and one or two preliminary notes ; but be- 
yond that I did not have a word from Mr. Newby. I am 
sure that he did not wrong me in that he paid me noth- 
ing. It is probable that he did not sell fifty copies of the 
work ; but of what he did sell he gave me no account. 

I do not remember that I felt in any way disappoint- 
ed or hurt. I am quite sure that no word of com- 
plaint passed my lips. I think I may say that after 
the publication I never said a word about the book, 
even to my wife. The fact that I had written and pub- 
lished it, and that I was writing another, did not in the 
least interfere with my life or with my determination 
to make the best I could of the Post-office. In Ire- 
land, I think that no one knew that I had written a 
novel. But I w^ent on writing. "The Macdermots" 
was published in 1847, and the ''The Kelly s and the 
O'Kellys" followed in 1848. I changed my publish- 
er, but did not change my fortune. This second Irish 
story was sent into the world by Mr. Colburn, who had 
long been my mother's publisher, who reigned in Great 
Marlborough Street, and I believe created the business 
which is now carried on by Messrs. Hurst & Blackett. 
He had previously been in partnership with Mr. Bent- 



My First Two Novels, 69 

ley in !N"ew Burlington Street. I made the same agree- 
ment as before as to half profits, and with precisely the 
same results. The book was not only not read, but was 
never heard of — at any rate, in Ireland. And yet it is 
a good Irish story, much inferior to "The Macder- 
mots"as to plot, but superior in the mode of telling. 
Again I held my tongue, and not only said nothing, 
but felt nothing. Any success would, I think, have 
carried me off my legs, but I was altogether prepared 
for failure. Thougli I thoroughly enjoyed tlie writino- 
of these books, I did not imagine, when the time came 
for publishing them, that any one would condescend to 
read them. 

But in reference to " The O'Kellys " there arose a 
circumstance which set my mind to work on a subject 
which has exercised it much ever since. I made my 
first acquaintance with criticism. A dear friend of 
mine, to whom the book had been sent — as have all my 
books — wrote me word to Ireland that he had been 
dining at some club with a man high in authority 
among the gods of the Times newspaper, and that this 
special god had almost promised that " The O'Kellys " 
should be noticed in that most influential of " or^rans." 
The information moved me very much; but it set me 
thinking whether the notice, should it ever appear, 
would not have been more valuable, at any rate, more 
honest, if it had been produced by other means; if, for 
instance, the writer of the notice had been instigated 
by the merits or demerits of the book instead of by the 
friendship of a friend. And I made up my mind then 
that, should I continue this trade of authorship, I would 
have no dealings with any critic on my own behalf. I 



70 Autobiography of Anthony Trollo^e. 

would neither ask for nor deplore criticism, nor would 
I ever thank a critic for praise, or quarrel with him, 
even in nij own heart, for censure. To this rule I 
have adhered with absolute strictness, and this rule I 
would recommend to all young authors. What can be 
got by touting among the critics is never worth the ig- 
nominy. The same may of course be said of all things 
acquired by ignominious means. But in this matter it 
is so easy to fall into the dirt. Facilis descensus Aver- 
ni. There seems to be but little fault in suggesting to 
a friend that a few words in this or that journal would 
be of service. But any praise so obtained must be an 
injustice to the public, for whose instruction, and not 
for the sustentation of the author, such notices are in- 
tended. And from such mild suggestion the descent to 
crawling at the critic's feet, to the sending of presents, 
and at last to a mutual understanding between critics 
and criticised, is only too easy. Other evils follow, for 
the denouncing of which this is hardly the place ; 
though I trust I may find such place before my work 
is finished. I took no notice of my friend's letter, but 
I was not the less careful in watching the Times. At 
last the review came — a real- review in the Times. I 
learned it by heart, and can now give, if not the 
words, the exact purport. " Of ' The Kellys and the 
O'Kellys ' we may say what the master said to his f oot- 
'^'"'^man, when the man complained of the constant supply 
of legs of mutton on the kitchen table. ' AYell, John, 
legs of mutton are good substantial food ;' and we may 
say also what John replied : ' Substantial, sir ; yes, they 
are substantial, but a little coarse.' " Tliat was the re- 
view, and even that did not sell the book ! 



My First Two Novels. 7j 

From Mr. Colburn I did receive an account, sbowina: 
that 375 copies of the book had been printed, that 140 
had been sold— to those, I presume, who liked substan- '^ 
tial food though it was coarse — and that he had incur- 
red a loss of £63 10^. l^d. The truth of the account I 
never for a moment doubted ; nor did I doubt the wis- 
dom of the advice given to me in the following letter, 
though I never thought of obeying it : 

" Great Marlborough Street, 
November 11, 1848. 

*'Mt dear Sir, — I am sorry to say that absence from town and other 
circumstances have prevented me from earlier inquiring into the resuhs 
of the sale of ' The Kellys and the O'Kellys,' with which tlie greatest 
efforts have been used, but in vain. The sale has been, I regret to say, 
so small that the loss upon the publication is A-ery considerable ; and it 
appears clear to me that although, in consequence of the great number of 
novels that are published, the sale of each, with some few exceptions, 
must be small, yet it is evident that readers do not like novels on Irish 
subjects as well as on others. Thus you will perceive it is impossible for 
me to give any encouragement to you to proceed in novel-writing. 

"As, however, I understand you have nearly finished the novel 'La 
Vende'e,' perhaps you will favor me with a sight of it when convenient. 
"I remain, etc., etc., H. Colburn." 

This, though not strictly logical, was a rational letter, 
telling a plain truth plainly. I did not like the assur- 
ance that "the greatest efforts had been used," thinkino- 
tliat any efforts w^hich might be made for the popular- 
ity of a book ought to have come from the author; but 
I took in good part ]\Ir. Colburn's assurance that he 
could not encourage me in the career I had commenced. 
I would have bet twenty to one against my own suc- 
cess. But by continuing I could lose only pen and 
paper ; and if the one chance in twenty did turn up in 
my favor, then how much might I win ! 



72 Autobiograj}hy of Anthony TTollo;pe. 



Chapter Y. 

MY FIRST SUCCESS. 

1849-1855. 

I HAD at once gone to work on a third novel, and 
had nearly completed it, when I was informed of the 
absolute failure of the former. I find, however, that the 
agreement for its publication was not made till 1850, 
by which time I imagine that Mr. Colburn must have 
forgotten the disastrous result of " The O'Kellys," as 
he thereby agrees to give me £20 down for my " new 
historical novel, to be called ' La Yendee.' " He agreed 
also to pay me £30 more when he had sold 350 copies, 
and £50 more should he sell 450 within six months. 
I got my £20, and then heard no more of " La Yen- 
dee," not even receiving any account. Perhaps the 
historical title had appeared more alluring to him than 
an Irish subject; though it was not long afterwards 
that I received a warning from the very same house 
of business against historical novels — as I will tell at 
length when the proper time comes. 

I have no doubt that the result of the sale of this 
story was no better than that of the two that had gone 
before. I asked no questions, however, and to this day 
have received no information. The story is certainly 
inferior to those which had gone before — chiefly be- 
cause I knew accurately the life of the people in Ire- 



My First Success. 73 

land, and knew, in truth, nothing of life in the Yen- 
dee country, and also because the facts of the present 
time came more within the limits of my powers of 
story-telling than those of past years. But I read the 
book the other day, and am not ashamed of it. The 
conception as to the feeling of the people is, I think, 
true ; the characters are distinct ; and the tale is not 
dull. As far as I can remember, this morsel of criti- 
cism is the only one that was ever written on the book. 

I had, however, received £20. Alas ! alas ! years 
were to roll by before 1 should earn by my pen another 
shilling. And, indeed, I was well aware that I had not 
earned that ; but that the money had been " talked out 
of" the worthy publisher by the earnestness of my 
brother, who made the bargain for me. I have known 
very much of publishers and have been surprised by 
much in their mode of business — by the apparent lav- 
ishness and by the apparent hardness to authors, in the 
same men — but by nothing so much as by the ease 
with w^iich they can occasionally be persuaded to throw 
away small sums of money. If you will only make the 
payment future instead of present, you may generally 
twist a few pounds in your own or your client's favor. 
"You might as well promise her £20. This day six 
months will do very well." The publisher, though he 
knows that the money will never come back to him, 
thinks it worth his while to rid himself of your impor- 
tunity at so cheap a price. 

But while I was writing "La Yendee" I made a lit- 
erary attempt in another direction. In 1847 and 1848 
there had come upon Ireland the desolation and de- 
struction, first, of the famine, and then of the pestilence 

4 



74 Autobiography of Anthony Trollope. 

which succeeded the famine. It was my duty at that 
time to be travelling constantly in those parts of Ire- 
land in which the misery and troubles thence arising 
were, perhaps, at their worst. The western parts of 
Cork, Kerry, and Clare were pre-eminently unfortunate. 
The efforts — I may say the successful eiforts — made by 
the government to stay the hands of death will still 
be in the remembrance of many — how Sir Eobert Peel 
was instigated to repeal the Corn-laws ; and how, sub- 
sequently, Lord John Russell took measures for em- 
ploying the people, and supplying the country with In- 
dian corn. The expediency of these latter measures was 
questioned by many. The people themselves wished, 
of course, to be fed without working ; and the gentry, 
who were mainly responsible for the rates, were disposed 
to think that the management of affairs was taken too 
much out of their own hands. My mind at the time 
was busy with the matter, and, thinking that the gov- 
ernment was right, I was inclined to defend them as 
far as my small powers went. S. G. O. (Lord Sydney 
Godolphin Osborne) was at that time denouncing the 
Irish scheme of the administration in the Times, using 
very strong language, as those who remember his style 
will know. I fancied then — as I still think — that I un- 
derstood the country much better than he did ; and I 
was anxious to show that the steps taken for mitigating 
the terrible evil of the times were the best which the 
minister of the day could have adopted. In 1848 I was 
in London, and, full of my purpose, I presented myself 
to Mr. John Forster — who has since been an intimate 
and valued friend — but who was at that time the edi- 
tor of the Examiner. I think that that portion of the 



My First Success. 75 

literary world wliicli understands the fabrication of 
newspapers will admit that neither before his time, nor 
since, has there been a more capable editor of a weekly 
newspaper. As a literary man, he was not without his 
faults. That which the cabman is reported to have 
said of him before the magistrate is quite true. He 
was always " an arbitrary cove." As a critic, he be- 
longed to the school of Bentley and Gifford — who would 
always bray in a literary mortar all critics who disa- 
greed with them, as though such disagreement were a 
personal offence requiring personal castigation. But 
that very eagerness made him a good editor. Into 
. whatever he did he put his very heart and soul. Dur- 
ing his time t\\Q Examiner w\as almost all that a Liberal 
weekly paper should be. So to John Forster I went, 
and was shown into that room in Lincoln's Inn Fields 
in which, some three or four years earlier, Dickens had 
given that reading of which there is an illustration, with 
portraits, in the second volume of his Life. 

At this time I knew no literary men. A few I had 
met when living with my mother, but that had been 
now so long ago that all such acquaintance had died 
out. I knew who they were, as far as a man could get 
such knowledge from the papers of the day, and felt 
myself as in part belonging to the guild, through my 
mother, and in some degree by my own unsuccessful 
efforts. But it was not probable that any one w^ould 
admit my claim; nor on this occasion did I make any 
claim. I stated my name and official position, and the 
fact that opportunities had been given me of seeing the 
poor-houses in Ireland, and of making myself acquaint- 
ed with the circumstances of the time. Would a series 



76 Autobiography of Atithony Trollope. 

of letters on the subject be accepted by the Examiner ? 
The great man, who loomed very large to me, was 
pleased to say that if the letters should recommend 
themselves by their style and matter, if they were not 
too long, and if — every reader will know how on such 
occasions an editor will guard himself — if tliis and if 
that, they should be favorably entertained. They were 
favorably entertained, if printing and publication be fa- 
vorable entertainment. But I heard no more of them. 
The world in Ireland did not declare that the govern- 
ment had at last been adequately defended, nor did the 
treasurer of the Examiner send me a check in return. 

Whether there ought to have been a check I do not 
even yet know. A man who writes a single letter to 
a newspaper of course is not paid for it, nor for any 
number of letters on some point personal to himself. 
I have since written sets of letters to newspapers, and 
have been paid for them ; but then I have bargained 
for a price. On this occasion I had hopes; but they 
never ran high, and I was not much disappointed. I 
have no copy now of those letters, and could not refer 
to them without much trouble; nor do I remember 
what I said. But I know that I did my best in writing 
them. 

When my historical novel failed, as completely as 
had its predecessors, the two Irish novels, I began to 
ask myself whether, after all, that was my proper line. 
I had never thought of questioning the justice of the 
verdict expressed against me. The idea that I was the 
unfortunate owner of unappreciated genius never troub- 
led me. I did not look at the books after they were 
published, feeling sure that they had been, as it were, 



3ly First Success. 77 

damned with good reason. But still I was clear in my 
mind that I would not lay down my pen. Then and 
therefore I determined to change my hand, and to at- 
tempt a play. I did attempt the play, and in 1850 I 
wrote a comedy, partly in blank verse, and partly in 
prose, called " The :N"oble Jilt." The plot I afterwards 
used in a novel called "Can You Forgive Her?'' I 
believe that I did give the best of my intellect to the 
play, and I must own that when it was completed it 
pleased me much. I copied it, and re-copied it, touch- 
ing it here and touching it there, and then sent it to 
my very old friend, George Bartley, the actor, who had, 
when I w^as in London, been stage-manager of one of 
the great theatres, and who would, I thought, for my 
own sake and for my mother's, give me the full benefit 
of his professional experience. 

I have now before me the letter which he wrote to 
me — a letter which I have read a score of times. It 
was altogether condemnatory. " When I commenced," 
he said, "I had great hopes of your production. I did 
not think it opened dramatically, but that might have 
been remedied." I knew then that it was all over. 
But, as my old friend warmed to the subject, the criti- 
cism became stronger and stronger, till my ears tingled. 
At last came the fatal blow. " As to the character of 
your heroine, I felt at a loss how to describe it, but 
you have done it for me in the last speech of Madame 
Brudo." Madame Brudo was the heroine's aunt. 
" ' Margaret, my child, never play the jilt again ; 'tis 
a most unbecoming character. Play it with what skill 
you will, it meets but little sympathy.' And this, be 
assured, would be its effect upon an audience. So that 



78 Autdbiogrwphy of Anthony Trollope. 

I must reluctantly add that, had I been still a manager, 
'The Noble Jilt' is not a play I could have recom- 
mended for production." This was a blow that I did 
feel. The neglect of a book is a disagreeable fact which 
grows upon an author by degrees. There is no special 
moment of agony — no stunning violence of condemna- 
tion. But a piece of criticism such as this, from a 
friend, and from a man undoubtedly capable of form- 
in o* an opinion, was a blow in the face ! But I accepted 
the judgment loyally, and said not a word on the sub- 
ject to any one. I merely showed the letter to my 
wife, declaring my conviction that it must be taken as 
gospel. And as critical gospel it has since been accept- 
ed. In later days I have more than once read the play, 
and I know that he was right. The dialogue, however, 
I think to be good, and I doubt whether some of the 
scenes be not the brightest and best work I ever did. 

Just at this time another literary project loomed be- 
fore my eyes, and for six or eight months had consider- 
able size. I was introduced to Mr. John Murray, and 
proposed to him to write a Handbook for Ireland. I 
explained to him that I knew the country better than 
most other people, perhaps better than any other person, 
and could do it well. He asked me to make a trial of 
my skill, and to send him a certain number of pages, 
undertaking to give me an answer within a fortnight 
after he should have received my work. I came back 
to Ireland, and for some weeks I labored very hard. I 
"did" the city of Dublin, and the county of Kerry, in 
which lies the lake scenery of Killarney ; and I " did " 
the route from Dublin to Killarney, altogether complet- 
ing nearly a quarter of the proposed volume. The roll 



My First Success. 79 

of manuscript was sent to Albermarle Street — but was 
never opened. At the expiration of nine months from 
the date on which it reached that time-honored spot it 
was returned without a word, in answer to a very angry 
letter from myself. I insisted on having back my prop- 
erty — and got it. I need hardly say that my property 
has never been of the slightest use to me. In all honesty 
I think that, had he been less dilatory, John Murray 
would have got a very good Irish Guide at a cheap rate. 

Early in 1851 I was sent upon a job of special official 
work, which for two years so completely absorbed my 
time that I was able to write nothing. A plan w^as 
formed for extending the rural delivery of letters, and for 
adjusting the work, which up to that time had been 
done in a very irregular manner. A country letter- 
carrier would be sent in one direction, in which there 
were but few letters to be delivered, the arrangement 
having originated probably at the request of some in- 
fluential person, while in another direction there was no 
letter-carrier, because no influential person had exerted 
himself. It was intended to set this right throughout 
England, Ireland, and Scotland ; and 1 quickly did the 
work in the Irish district to which I was attached. I 
was then invited to do the same in a portion of England, 
and I spent two of the happiest years of my life at the 
task. I began in Devonshire, and visited, I think I may 
say, every nook in that county, in Cornwall, Somerset- 
shire, the greater part of Dorsetshire, the Channel Islands, 
part of Oxfordshire, Wiltshire, Gloucestershire, Worces- 
tershire, Herefordshire, Monmouthshire, and the six 
southern Welsh counties. In this way I had an oppor- 
tunity of seeing a considerable portion of Great Britain, 



80 Autdhiograjpliy of Anthony Trollope, 

with a minuteness whicli few have enjoyed. And I did 
my business after a fashion in which no other official 
man has worked, at least, for many years. I went al- 
most everywhere on horseback. I had two hunters of 
my own, and here and there, where I conld, I hired a 
third horse. I had an Irish groom with me, an old 
man, who has now been in my service for thirty-five 
years ; and in this manner I saw almost every house — I 
think I may say every house of importance — in this large 
district. The object was to create a postal network 
which should catch all recipients of letters. In France 
it was, and I suppose still is, the practice to deliver every 
letter. Wherever the man may live to whom a letter 
is addressed, it is the duty of some letter-carrier to take 
that letter to his house, sooner or later. But this, of 
course, must be done slowly. AVith us a delivery much 
delayed was thought to be worse than none at all. In 
some places we did establish posts three times a week, 
and perhaps occasionally twice a week ; but such halting 
arrangements were considered to be objectionable, and 
we were bound down by a salutary law as to expense, 
which came from our masters at the Treasury. "We 
were not allowed to establish any messenger's walk on 
which a sufficient number of letters would not be de- 
livered to pay the man's wages, counted at a halfpenny 
a letter. But then the counting was in our own hands, 
and an enterprising official might be sanguine in his 
figures. I think I was sanguine. I did not prepare 
false accounts ; but I fear that the postmasters and clerks 
who absolutely had the country to do became aware 
that I was anxious for good results. It is amusing to 
watch how a passion will grow upon a man. During 



My First Success. 81 

those two years it was the ambition of my life to cover 
the country with rural letter-carriers. I do not remem- 
ber that in any case a rural post proposed by me was 
negatived by the authorities ; but I fear that some of 
them broke down afterwards as being too poor, or because, 
in my anxiety to include this house and that, I had sent 
the men too far afield. Our law was that a man should 
not be required to w^alk more than sixteen miles a day. 
Plad the work to be done been all on a measured road, 
there would have been no need for doubt as to the dis- 
tances. But my letter-carriers went here and there 
across the fields. It was my special delight to take them 
by all short-cuts; and as I measured on horseback the 
short-cuts which they would have to make on foot, per- 
haps I was sometimes a little unjust to them. 

All this I did on horseback, riding on an average forty 
miles a day. I was paid sixpence a mile for the distance 
travelled, and it was necessary that I should, at any rate, 
travel enough to pay for my equipage. Tliis I did, and 
got my hunting out of it also. I have often surprised 
some small country postmaster, who had never seen or 
heard of me before, by coming down upon him at nine 
in the morning, with a red coat and boots and breeches, 
and interrogating him as to the disposal of every letter 
which came into his office. And in the same guise I 
would ride up to farmhouses, or parsonages, or other lone 
residences about the country, and ask the people how 
they got their letters, at what liour, and especially whetlier 
they were delivered free or at a certain charge. For a 
habit had crept into use, which came to be, in my eyes, 
at that time, the one sin for which there was no pardon, 
in accordance with which these rural letter-carriers used 

4* 



83 Autobiography of Anthony TroUojpe. 

to charge a penny a letter, alleging that the house was 
out of their beat, and that they must be paid for their 
extra work. I think that I did stamp out that evil. 
In all these visits I was, in truth, a beneficent angel to 
the public, bringing everywhere with me an earlier, 
cheaper, and much more regular delivery of letters. 
But not unfrequently the angelic nature of my mission 
was imperfectly understood. I was, perhaps, a little in 
a hurry to get on, and did not allow as much time as 
was necessary to explain to the wondering mistress of 
the house, or to an open-mouthed farmer, why it was 
that a man arrayed for hunting asked so many questions 
which might be considered impertinent, as applying to 
his or her private affairs. ^' Good-morning, sir. I have 
just called to ask a few questions. I am a surveyor of 
the Post-office. How do you get your letters? As I 
am a little in a hurry, perhaps you can explain at 
once." Then I would take out my pencil and note- 
book, and wait for information. And, in fact, there was 
no other way in which the truth could be ascertained. 
Unless I came down suddenly as a summer's storm upon 
them, the very people who were robbed by our messen- 
gers would not confess the robbery, fearing the ill-will 
of the men. It was necessary to startle them into the 
revelations which I required them to make for their own 
good. And I did startle them. I became thoroughly 
Vised to it, and soon lost my native bashfulness — but 
sometimes my visits astonished the retiring inhabitants 
of country-houses. I did, however, do my work, and 
can look back upon what I did with thorough satisfac- 
tion. I was altogether in earnest; and I believe that 
many a farmer now has his letters brought daily to his 



My First Success, 83 

house free of charge who but for me would still have 
had to send to the post-town for them twice a week, or 
to have paid a man for bringing them irregularly to his 
door. 

This work took up my time so completely, and entailed 
upon me so great an amount of writing, that I was, in 
fact, unable to do any literary work. From day to day 
I thought of it, still purporting to make another effort, 
and often turning over in my head some fragment of a 
plot which had occurred to me. But the day did not 
come in which I could sit down with pen and paper and 
begin another novel. For, after all, what could it be 
but a novel? The play had failed more absolutely than 
the novels, for the novels had attained the honor of 
print. The cause of this pressure of official work lay, 
not in the demands of the General Post-office, which 
more than once expressed itself as astonished by my 
celerity, but in the necessity which was incumbent on me 
to travel miles enough to pay for my horses, and upon 
the amount of correspondence, returns, figures, and re- 
ports which such an amount of daily travelling brought 
with it, I may boast that the work was done very 
quickly and very thoroughly — with no fault but an over- 
eagerness to extend postal arrangements far and wide. 

In the course of the job I visited Salisbury, and while 
wandering there one midsummer evening round the 
purlieus of the cathedral I conceived the story of " The 
Warden " — from whence came tliat series of novels of 
which Barchester, with its bishops, deans, and archdea- 
con, was the central site. I may as well declare at once 
that no one at their commencement could have had less 
reason than myself to presume himself to be able to 



84 Autobiography of Anthony TroUojpe. 

write about clergymen. I have been often asked in 
what period of mj early life I had lived so long in a 
cathedral city as to have become intimate with the 
ways of a close. I never lived in any cathedral city, ex- 
cept London, never knew anything of any close, and at 
that time had enjoyed no peculiar intimacy with any 
clergyman. My archdeacon, who has been said to be 
life-like, and for whom I confess that I have all a par- 
ent's fond affection, was, I think, the simple result of an 
effort of my moral consciousness. It was such as that, 
in my opinion, that an archdeacon should be, or, at any 
rate, would be, with such advantages as an archdeacon 
might have ; and lo ! an archdeacon was produced, who 
has been declared by competent authorities to be a real 
archdeacon down to the very ground. And yet, as far 
as I can remember, I had not then even spoken to an 
archdeacon. I have felt the compliment to l>e very 
great. The archdeacon came whole from my brain after 
this fashion; but in writing about clergymen generally, 
I had to pick up as I went whatever I might know or 
pretend to know about them. But my first idea had 
no reference to clergymen in general. I had been 
struck by two opposite evils, or what seemed to me to 
be evils, and with an absence of all art-judgment in such 
matters I thought that I might be able to expose them, 
or rather, to describe them, both in one and the same 
tale. The first evil was the possession by the Church of 
certain funds and endowments which had been intended 
for charitable purposes, but which had been allowed to 
become incomes for idle Church dignitaries. There had 
been more than one such case brought to public notice 
at the time, in which there seemed to have been an 



My First Success. 85 

egregious malversation of charitable purposes. The 
second evil was its very opposite. Though 1 had been 
much struck by the injustice above described, I had also 
often been angered by the undeserved severity of the 
newspapers towards the recipients of such incomes, who 
could hardly be considered to be the chief sinners in the 
matter. When a man is appointed to a place it is natural 
that he should accept the income allotted to that place 
without much inquiry. It is seldom that he will be the 
first to find out that his services are overpaid. Though 
he be called upon only to look beautiful and to be dig- 
nified upon state occasions, he will think £2000 a year 
little enough for such beauty and dignity as he brings 
to the task. I felt that there had been some tearing 
to pieces which might have been spared. Bat I was 
altogether wrong in supposing that the two things could 
be combined. Any writer in advocating a cause must 
do so after the fashion of an advocate, or his writing 
will be ineffective. He should take up one side and 
cling to that, and then he may be powerful. There 
should be no scruples of conscience. Such scruples make 
a man impotent for sucli work. It was open to me to 
have described a bloated parson, with a red nose and all 
other iniquities, openly neglecting every duty required 
from him, and living riotously on funds purloined from 
the poor, defying as he did so the moderate remon- 
strances of a virtuous press. Or I might have painted 
a man as good, as sweet, and as mild as my w^arden, who 
should also have been a hard-working, ill-paid minister 
of God's Word, and might have subjected him to the 
rancorous venom of some daily Jupiter, who, without a 
leg to stand on, without any true case, might have been 



86 A\d6biogra]pliy of Anthony Trollope. 

induced, by personal spite, to tear to rags the poor 
clergyman, with poisonous, anonymous, and ferocious 
leading articles. But neither of these programmes rec- 
ommended itself to my honesty. Satire, though it 
may exaggerate the vice it lashes, is not justified in 
creating it in order that it may be hashed. Caricature 
may too easily become a slander, and satire a libel. I 
believed in the existence neither of the red-nosed cleri- 
cal cormorant, nor in that of the venomous assassin of 
the journals. I did believe that through want of care, 
and the natural tendency of every class to take care of 
itself, money had slipped into the pockets of certain 
clergymen which should have gone elsewhere ; and I 
believed also that through the equally natural propensity 
of men to be as strong as they know how to be, certain 
writers of the press had allowed themselves to use lan- 
guage which was cruel, though it was in a good cause. 
But the two objects should not have been combined — 
and I now know myself well enough to be aware that I 
was not the man to have carried out either of them. 

ISTevertheless I thought much about it, and on the 
29th of Jul}^, 1S53, having been then two years without 
having made any literary effort, I began " The Warden," 
at Tenbury, in Worcestershire. It w^as then more than 
twelve months since I had stood for an hour on the 
little bridge in Salisbury, and had made out to my own 
satisfaction the spot on which Hiram's hospital should 
stand. Certainly, no work that I ever did took up so 
much of my thoughts. On this occasion I did no more 
than write the first chapter, even if so much. I had 
determined that my official work should be moderated, 
BO as to allow me some time for writing ; but then, just 



My First Success. 87 

at this time, I was sent to take the postal charge of the 
northern counties in Ireland, of Ulster, and the counties 
Meath and Louth. Hitherto, in official language, I had 
been a surveyor's clerk, now I was to be a surveyor. 
The difference consisted mainly in an increase of income 
from about £450 to about £800 — for at that time the 
sum netted still depended on the number of miles 
travelled. Of course, that English work to which I had 
become so warmly wedded had to be abandoned. Other 
parts of England were being done by other men, and I 
had nearly finished the area which had been intrusted 
to me. I should have liked to ride over the whole 
country, and to have sent a rural post letter-carrier to 
every parish, every village, every hamlet, and every 
grange in England. 

We were at this time very much unsettled as regards 
any residence. While we were living at Clonmel two 
sons had been born, who certainly were important 
enough to have been mentioned sooner. At Clonmel 
we had lived in lodgings, and from there had moved to 
Mallow, a town in the County Cork, where we had taken 
a house. Mallow was in the centre of a huntino: coun- 
try, and had been very pleasant to me. But our house 
there had been given up when it was known that I 
should be detained in England ; and then we had wan- 
dered about in the western counties, moving our head- 
quarters from one town to another. During this time 
we had lived at Exeter, at Bristol, at Caermarthen, at 
Cheltenham, and at Worcester. Now we again moved, 
and settled ourselves for eighteen months at Belfast. 
After that we took a house at Donnybrook, the well- 
known suburb of Dublin. 



88 Autobiograjpliy of Anthony Trollope. 

The work of taking up a new district, which requires 
not only that the man doing it should know the nature 
of the postal arrangements, but also the characters and 
the peculiarities of the postmasters and their clerks, was 
too heavy to allow of my going on with my book at 
once. It was not till the end o^ 1852 that I recom- 
menced it, and it was in the autumn of 1853 that I fin- 
ished the work. It was only one small volume, and in 
later days would have been completed in six weeks, or 
in two months at the longest, if other work had pressed. 
On looking at the title-page, I find it was not published 
till 1855. I had made acquaintance, through my friend 
John Merivale, w^ith William Longman, the publisher, 
and had received from him an assurance that the manu- 
script should be " looked at." It was " looked at," and 
Messrs. Longman made me an offer to publish it at half 
profits. I had no reason to love " half profits," but I 
was very anxious to have my book published, and I ac- 
ceded. It was now more than ten years since I had 
commenced writing " The Macdermots," and I thought 
that if any success was to be achieved, the time surely 
had come. I had not been impatient ; but, if there was 
to be a time, surely it had come. 

The novel-reading world did not go mad about " The 
Warden ;" but I soon felt that it had not failed as the 
others had failed. There were notices of it in the press, 
and I could discover that people around me knew that 
I had written a book. Mr. Longman was compliment- 
ary, and after a while informed me that there would be 
profits to divide. At the end of 1855 I received a 
check for £9 8.5. 8^., which was the first money I had 
ever earned by literary work — that £20 which poor 



My First Success. 39 

Mr. Colbnm Lad been made to pay certainly never hav- 
ing been earned at all. At the end of 1856 I received 
another sum of £10 15^. Id. The pecuniary success 
was not great. Indeed, as regarded remuneration for 
the time, stone-breaking would have done better. A 
thousand copies were printed, of which, after a lapse of 
five or six years, about three hundred had to be con- 
verted into another form, and sold as belonging to a 
cheap edition. In its original form "The Warden" 
never reached the essential honor of a second edition. 

I have already said of the work that it failed alto- 
gether in the purport for which it was intended. But 
it has a merit of its own, a merit by my own perception 
of which I was enabled to see wherein lay whatever 
strength I did possess. The characters of the bishop, 
of the archdeacon, of the archdeacon's wife, and espe- 
cially of the warden, are all well and clearly drawn. I 
had realized to myself a series of portraits, and had been 
able so to put them on the canvas that my readers should 
see that which I meant them to see. There is no gift 
which an author can have more useful to him than this. 
And the style of the English was good, though, from 
most unpardonable carelessness, the grammar was not 
nnfrequently faulty. With such results I had no doubt 
but that I would at once begin another novel. 

I will here say one word as a long-deferred answer to 
an item of criticism which appeared in the Times news- 
paper as to " The Warden." In an article— if I remem- 
ber rightly, on " The Warden " and " Barchester Towers " 
combined— which I would call good-natured, but that 
I take it for granted that the critics of the Times are 
actuated by higher motives than good-nature, that little 



90 Autobiography of Ardhony Trolloj)e. 

book and its sequel are spoken of in terms which were 
very pleasant to the author. But there was added to 
this a gentle word of rebuke at the morbid condition of 
the author's mind, which had prompted him to indulge 
in personalities — the personalities in question having 
reference to some editor or manager of the Times news- 
paper. For I had introduced one Tom Towers as being 
potent among the contributors to the Jupiter^ under 
which name I certainly did allude to the Times. But 
at that time, living away in Ireland, I had not even 
heard the name of any gentleman connected with the 
Times newspaper, and could not have intended to repre- 
sent any individual by Tom Towers. As I had created 
an archdeacon, so had I created a journalist, and the one 
creation was no more personal or indicative of morbid 
tendencies than the other. If Tom Towers was at all 
like any gentleman then connected with the Times, my 
moral consciousness must again have been very powerful. 



'^Barchester TowersP 91 



Chapter YI. 

"BARCHESTER TOWERS" AND "THE THREE CLERKS." 

1855-1858. 

It was, I think, before I started on mj English tours 
among the rural posts that I made my first attempt at 
writing for a magazine. I had read, soon after they 
came out, the first two volumes of Charles Merivale's 
" History of the Romans under the Empire," and had 
got into some correspondence with the author's brother 
as to the author's views about Csesar. Hence arose in 
my mind a tendency to investigate the character of 
probably the greatest man who ever lived, which ten- 
dency in after-years produced a little book of which I 
shall have to speak when its time comes — and also a 
taste generally for Latin literature, which has been one 
of the chief delights of my later life. And I may say 
that I became at this time as anxious about Caesar, and 
as desirous of reaching the truth as to his character, as 
we have all been in regard to Bismarck in these later 
days. I lived in Csesar, and debated with myself con- 
stantly whether he crossed the Rubicon as a tyrant or 
as a patriot. In order that I might review Mr. Meri- 
vale's book without feeling that I was dealing unwar- 
rantably with a subject beyond me, I studied the "Com- 
mentaries" thoroughly, and went through a mass of other 
reading which the object of a magazine article hardly 



93 AutoUography of Anthony Trollo])e. 

justified, but whicli has thoroughly justified itself in 
the subsequent pursuits of my life. I did write two 
articles, the first mainly on Julius Caesar, and the second 
on Augustus, which appeared in the DuUin University 
Magazine. They were the result of very much labor, 
but there came from them no pecuniary product. I 
had been very modest when I sent them to the editor, 
as I had been when I called on John Forster, not ven- 
turing to suggest the subject of money. After a while 
I did call upon the proprietor of the magazine in Dub- 
lin, and was told by him that such articles were gener- 
ally written to oblige friends, and that articles written 
to oblige friends were not usually paid for. The Dean 
of Ely, as the author of the work in question now is, 
was my friend ; but I think I was wronged, as I cer- 
tainly had no intention of obliging him by my criticism. 
Afterwards, when I returned to Ireland, I wrote other 
articles for the same magazine, one of which, intended 
to be very savage in its denunciation, was on an ofiicial 
blue-book just then brought out, preparatory to the in- 
troduction of competitive examinations for the civil 
service. For that and some other article, I now forget 
what, I was paid. Up to the end of 1857 I had re- 
ceived £55 for the hard work of ten years. 

It was while I was engaged on " Barchester Towers" 
that I adopted a system of writing which, for some 
years afterwards, I found to be very serviceable to me. 
My time was greatl}^ occupied in travelling, and the nat- 
ure of my travelling was now changed. I could not 
any longer do it on horseback. Eailroads afforded rae 
my means of conveyance, and I found that I passed in 
railway - carriages very many hours of my existence. 



^^Barchester TowersP 03 

Like others, I used to read — though Carljle lias since 
told me that a man when travelling should not read, 
but ''sit still and label his thoughts." But if I in- 
tended to make a profitable business out of mj writing, 
and, at the same time, to do mj best for the Post-office, 
I must turn these hours to more account than I could 
do even by reading. I made for myself, therefore, a 
little tablet, and found after d, few days' exercise that 
I could write as quickly in a railway-carriage as I could 
at my desk. I worked with a pencil, and what I wrote 
my wife copied afterwards. In this way was composed 
the greater part of " Barchester Towers "' and of the 
novel which succeeded it, and much also of others sub- 
sequent to them. My only objection to the practice 
came from the appearance of literary ostentation, to 
which I felt myself to be subject when going to work 
before four or five fellow-passengers. But I got used 
to it, as I had done to the amazement of the west 
country farmers' wives when asking them after their 
letters. 

In the writing of '* Barchester Towers " I took great 
delight. The bishop and Mrs. Proudie were very real 
to me, as were also the troubles of the archdeacon and 
the loves of Mr. Slope. When it was done, Mr. W. 
Longman required that it should be subjected to his 
reader; and he returned the manuscript to me, with a 
most laborious and voluminous criticism — coming from 
whom I never knew. This was accompanied by an 
o2er to print the novel on the half-profit system, with 
a payment of £100 in advance out of my half profits — 
on condition that I would compl}* with the suggestions 
made by his critic. One of these suggestions required 



94 Autobiograjphy of Anthony Trollojpe. 

that I should cut the novel down to two volumes. In 
mj reply I went through the criticisms, rejecting one 
and accepting another, almost alternately, but declaring 
at last that no consideration should induce me to cut 
out a third of my work. I am at a loss to know how 
such a task could be performed. I could burn the manu- 
script, no doubt, and write another book on the same 
story ; but how two w^ords out of six are to be withdrawn 
from a written novel, I cannot conceive. I believe 
such tasks have been attempted — perhaps performed; 
but I refused to make even the attempt. Mr. Long- 
man was too gracious to insist on his critic's terms ; and 
the book was published, certainly none the worse, and 
I do not think much the better, for the care that had 
been taken with it. 

The work succeeded just as " The Warden " had suc- 
ceeded. It achieved no great reputation, but it was one 
of the novels w^iich novel-readers were called upon to 
read. Perhaps I iw^y be assuming unto myself more 
than I have a right to do in saying now that "Bar- 
chester Towers " lias become one of those novels which 
do not die quite at once, which live and are read for 
perhaps a quarter of a century ; but if that be so, its 
life has been so far prolonged by the vitality of some 
of its younger brothers. " Barchester Towers " would 
hardly be so well known as it is had there been no 
"Framley Parsonage" and no "Last Chronicle of 
Barset." 

I received my £100, in advance, with profound de- 
light. It w^as a positive and most w^elcome increase to 
my income, and might probably be regarded as a first 
real step on the road to substantial success. I am well 



^'Barchester Towers.''^ 95 

aware that there are many who think that an author in 
his authorship should not regard money — nor a painter, 
or sculptor, or composer, in his art. I do not know that 
this unnatural self-sacrifice is supposed to extend itself 
further. A barrister, a clergyman, a doctor, an en- 
gineer, and even actors and architects, may without dis- 
grace follow the bent of human nature, and endeavor 
to fill their bellies and clothe their backs, and also those 
of their wives and children, as comfortably as they 
can, by the exercise of their abilities and their crafts. 
They may be as rationally realistic as may the butch- 
ers and the bakers ; but the artist and the author 
forget the high glories of their calling if they con- 
descend to make a money return a first object. They 
who preach this doctrine will be much offended by my 
theory, and by this book of mine, if my theory and my 
book come beneath their notice. They require the prac- 
tice of a so-called virtue which is contrary to nature, and 
w^hich, in my eyes, would be no virtue if it were prac- 
tised. They are like clergymen who preach sermons 
against the love of money, but who know that the love 
of money is so distinctive a characteristic of humanity 
that such sermons are mere platitudes, called for by cus- 
tomary but unintelligent piety. All material progress 
has come from man's desire to do the best he can for 
himself and those about him, and civilization and 
Christianity itself have been made possible by such 
progress. Though we do not all of us argue this mat- 
ter out within our breasts, w^e do all feel it ; and we 
know that the more a man earns the more useful he is 
to his fellow-men. The most useful lawyers, as a rule, 
have been those who have made the greatest incomes — 



96 Autobiography of Anthony Trollojpe, 

and it is the same with the doctors. It would be the 
same in the Church if they who have the choosing of 
bishops always chose the best man. And it has in truth 
been so too in art and authorship. Did Titian or Ru- 
bens disregard their pecuniary rewards ? As far as we 
know, Shakespeare worked always for money, giving 
the best of his intellect to support his trade as an 
actor. In our own century what literary names stand 
higher than those of Byron, Tennyson, Scott, Dickens, 
Macaulay, and Carlyle? — and I think I may say that 
none of those great men neglected the pecuniary result 
of their labors. Now and then a man may arise 
among us who, in any calling, whether it be in law, in 
physic, in religious teaching, in art, or literature, may in 
his professional enthusiasm utterly disregard money. 
All will honor his enthusiasm, and if he be Avifeless and 
childless, his disregard of the great object of men's 
work will be blameless. But it is a mistake to suppose 
that a man is a better man because he despises money. 
Few do so, and those few in doing so suffer a defeat. 
Who does not desire to be hospitable to his friends, 
generous to the poor, liberal to all, munificent to his 
children, and to be himself free from the carking fear 
which poverty creates ? The subject will not stand an 
argument; and yet authors are told that they should 
disregard payment for their work, and be content to de- 
vote their unbought brains to the welfare of the public. 
Brains that are un bought will never serve the public 
much. Take away from English authors their copy- 
rights, and you would very soon take away from Eng- 
land her authors. 
I say this here, because it is my purjwse, as I go on, 



^'' Bar Chester Towers P 97 

to state what to me has been the result of mj profes- 
fiion in the ordinary way in which professions are re- 
garded ; so that by my example may be seen what pros- 
pect there is that a man devoting himself to literature 
with industry, perseverance, certain necessary aptitudes, 
and fair average talents, may succeed in gaining a liveli- 
hood, as another man does in another profession. The 
result with me has been comfortable but not splendid, 
as I think was to have been expected from the combi- 
nation of such gifts. 

I have, certainly, also had always before my eyes the 
charms of reputation. Over and above the money 
view of the question, I wished from the beginning to 
be something more than a clerk in the Post-office. To 
be known as somebody, to be Anthony Trollope, if it 
be no more, is to me much. The feeling is a very 
general one, and I think beneficent. It is that which 
has been called the " last infirmity of noble mind." 
The infirmity is so human that the man who lacks it is 
either above or below humanity. I own to the in- 
firmity. But I confess that my first object in taking 
to literature as a profession was that which is common 
to the barrister when he goes to the bar, and to the 
baker when he sets up his oven. I wished to make an 
income on which I and those belonging to me might 
live in comfort. 

If, indeed, a man writes his books badly, or paints his 
pictures badly, because he can make his money faster 
in that fashion than by doing them well, and at the 
same time proclaims them to be the best he can do, if, 
in fact, he sells shoddy for broadcloth, he is dishonest, 
as is any other fraudulent dealer. So may be the bar- 

5 



98 Autobiography of Anthony Trollope, 

rister who takes money that he does not earn, or the 
clergyman who is content to live on a sinecure. No 
doubt the artist or the author may have a difficulty 
which will not occur to ihi seller of cloth, in settling 
within himself what is good work and what is bad, 
when labor enough has been given, and when the task 
has been scamped. It is a danger as to which he is 
bound to be severe with himself — in which he ought to 
feel that his conscience should be set fairly in the bal- 
ance against the natural bias of his interest. If he do 
not do so, sooner or later his dishonesty will be discov- 
ered, and will be estimated accordingly. But in this he 
is to be governed only by the plain rules of honesty 
which should govern us all. Having said so much, I 
shall not scruple as I go on to attribute to the pecuniary 
result of my labors all the importance which I felt them 
to have at the time. 

^' Barchester Towers," for which I had received £100 
in advance, sold well enough to bring me further 
payments — moderate payments — from the publishers. 
From that day up to this very time in which I am writ- 
ing, that book and " The "Warden " together have given 
me almost every year some small income. I get the 
accounts very regularly, and I find that I have received 
£727 lis, Bd. for the two. It is more than I got for 
the three or four works that came afterwards, but the 
payments have been spread over twenty years. 

When I went to Mr. Longman with my next novel, 
" The Three Clerks," in my hand, I could not induce 
him to understand that a lump sum down was more 
pleasant than a deferred annuity. I wished him to buy 
it from me at a price which lie might think to be a fair 



''The Three ClerJcsP 99 

value, and I argued with him that as soon as an author 
has put himself into a position which insures a sufficient 
sale of his works to give a profit, the publisher is not 
entitled to expect the haU of such proceeds. While 
there is a pecuniary risk, the whole of which must be 
borne by the publisher, such division is fair enough ; 
but such a demand on the part of the publisher is mon- 
strous as soon as the article produced is known to be 
a marketable commodity. I thought that I had now 
reached that point, but Mr. Longman did not agree with 
me. And he endeavored to convince me that I might 
lose more than I gained, even though I should get more 
money by going elsewhere. " It is for you," said he, 
'' to think whether our names on your title-page are not 
w^orth more to you than the increased payment." This 
seemed to me to savor of that high-flown doctrine of 
the contempt of money, which I have never admired. 
I did think much of Messrs. Longman's name, but I 
liked it best at the bottom of a check. 

I was also scared from the august columns of Pater- 
noster Kow by a remark made to myself by one of the 
firm, which seemed to imply that they did not much 
care for works of fiction. Speaking of a fertile writer 

of tales who was not then dead, he declared that 

(naming the author in question) had spawned upon them 
(the publishers) three novels a year ! Such language 
is perhaps justifiable in regard to a man who shows so 
much of the fecundity of the herring ; but I did not 
know how fruitful might be my own muse, and I 
thought that I had better go elsewhere. 

I had then written " The Three Clerks," which, when 
I could not sell it to Messrs. Longman, I took in the 



100 Autdbiogra/phy of Anthony Trollojpe, 

first instance to Messrs. Hurst & Blackett, who had be- 
come successors to Mr. Col burn. I had made an ap- 
pointment with one of the firm, which, however, that 
gentleman was unable to keep. I was on my way from 
Ireland to Italy, and had but one day in London in 
which to dispose of my manuscript. I sat for an hour 
in Great Marlborough Street, expecting the return of 
the peccant publisher who had broken his tryst, and I 
was about to depart with my bundle under my arm 
when the foreman of the house came to me. He seemed 
to think it a pity that I should go, and wished me to 
leave my work with him. This, however, I would not 
do, unless he would undertake to buy it then and there. 
Perhaps he lacked authority. Perhaps his judgment 
was against such purchase. But w^liile we debated the 
matter, he gave me some advice. " I hope it's not his- 
torical, Mr. Trollope ?" he said. " Whatever you do, 
don't be historical ; j^our historical novel is not worth a 
damn." Thence I took ''The Three Clerks" to Mr. 
Bentley; and on the same afternoon succeeded in sell- 
ing it to him for £250. His son still possesses it, and 
the firm has, I believe, done very well with the pur- 
chase. It was certainly the best novel I had as yet writ- 
ten. The plot is not so good as that of " The Macder- 
raots ;" nor are there any characters in the book equal 
to those of Mrs.Proudie and the warden ; but the work 
has a more continued interest, and contains the first 
well-described love-scene that I ever wrote. The pas- 
sage in which Kate Woodward, thinking that she will 
die, tries to take leave of the lad she loves, still brings 
tears to my eyes when I read it. I had not the heart 
to kill her. I never could do that. And I do not 



''The Three ClerksP lOi 

doubt but that they are living happily together to this 
day. 

The lawyer Chaffanbrass made his first appearance in 
this novel, and I do not think that I have cause to be 
ashamed of him. But this novel now is chiefly notice- 
able to me from the fact that in it I introduced a char- 
acter under the name of Sir Gregory Hardlines, by 
which I intended to lean very heavily on that much- 
loathed scheme of competitive examination, of which 
at that time Sir Charles Trevelyan was the great apostle. 
Sir Gregory Hardlines was intended for Sir Charles 
Trevelyan, as any one at the time would know who 
had taken an interest in the civil service. " We always 
call him Sir Gregory," Lady Trevelyan said to me after- 
wards, when I came to know her and her husband. I 
never learned to love competitive examination ; but I 
became, and am, very fond of Sir Charles Trevelyan. 
Sir Stafford JSTorthcote, who is now Chancellor of the 
Exchequer, was then leagued with his friend Sir Charles, 
and he too appears in " The Three Clerks " under the 
feebly facetious name of Sir Warwick "West End. 

But for all that " The Three Clerks " was a good 
novel. 

When that sale was made I was on my way to Italy 
with my wife, paying a third visit there to my mother 
and brother. This was in 1857, and she had then given 
up her pen. It was the first year in which she had not 
written, and she expressed to me her delight that her 
labors should be at an end, and that mine should be be- 
ginning in the same field. In truth they had already 
been continued for a dozen years, but a man's career 
will generally be held to date itself from the commence- 



102 Aiitdbiography of Anthony T7vllope. 

ment of his success. On those foreign tours I always 
encountered adventures, which, as I look back upon 
them now, tempt me almost to write a little book of 
my long-past Continental travels. On this occasion, as 
we made our way slowly through Switzerland and over 
the Alps, we encountered again and again a poor, for- 
lorn Englishman, who had no friend and no aptitude 
for travelling. He was always losing his way, and find- 
ing himself with no seat in the coaches and no bed at 
the inns. On one occasion I found him at Coire seated 
at 5 A.M. in the coupe of a diligence which was intended 
to start at noon for the Engadine, while it was his pur- 
pose to go over the Alps in another which was to leave 
at 5.30, and which was already crowded with passengers. 
" Ah !" he said, " I am in time now, and nobody shall 
turn me out of this seat," alluding to former little mis- 
fortunes of which I had been a witness. When I ex- 
plained to him his position, he was as one to whom life 
was too bitter to be borne. But he made his w^ay into 
Italy, and encountered me again at the Pitti Palace in 
Florence. " Can you tell me something ?" he said to 
me in a whisper, having touched my shoulder. " The 
people are so ill-natured I don't like to ask them. 
Where is it they keep the Medical Yenus ?" I sent 
him to the Uffizi, but I fear he was disappointed. 

We ourselves, however, on entering Milan, had been 
in quite as much distress as any that he suffered. We 
had not written for beds, and on driving up to a hotel 
at ten in the evening, found it full. Thence we went 
from one hotel to another, finding them all full. The 
misery is one well known to travellers, but I never 
heard of another case in which a man and his wife were 



''The Three ClerhsP 103 

told at midnight to get out of the conveyance into the 
middle of the street because the horse could not be 
made to go any farther. Such was our condition. I 
induced the driver, however, to go again to the hotel 
which was nearest to him, and which was kept by a 
German. Then I bribed the porter to get the master 
to come down to me ; and, though my French is ordi- 
narily very defective, I spoke with such eloquence to 
that German innkeeper tliat he, throwing his arms round 
my neck in a transport of compassion, swore that he 
would never leave me nor my wife till he had put us 
to bed. And he did so ; but, ah ! there were so many 
in those beds ! It is such an experience as this which 
teaches a travelling foreigner how different, on the Con- 
tinent, is the accommodation provided for him, from 
that which is supplied for the inhabitants of the country. 
It was on a previous visit to Milan, when the tele- 
graph-wires were only just opened to the public by the 
Austrian authorities, that we had decided one day at 
dinner that we would go to Yerona that night. There 
was a train at six, reaching Yerona at midnight, and we 
asked some servant of the hotel to telegraph for us, 
ordering supper and beds. The demand seemed to 
create some surprise ; but we persisted, and were only 
mildly grieved when we found ourselves charged twen- 
ty zwanzigers for the message. Telegraphy was new 
at Milan, and the prices were intended to be almost pro- 
hibitory. We paid our twenty zwanzigers and went on, 
consoling ourselves with the thought of our ready sup- 
per and our assured beds. When we reached Yerona 
there arose a great cry along the platform for Signor 
Trollope. I put out my head and declared my identity, 



104 Autobiography of Anthony Trollope, 

when I was waited upon by a glorious personage, 
dressed like a beau for a ball, with half a dozen others 
almost as glorious behind him, who informed me, with 
his hat in his hand, that he was the landlord of the 
" Due Torre." It was a heating moment, but it became 
more hot when he asked me after my people — mes gens. 
I could only turn round and point to my wife and 
brother-in-law. I had no other " people." There were 
three carriages provided for us, each with a pair of 
gray horses. When we reached the house it was all lit 
up. We were not allowed to move without an attend- 
ant with a lighted candle. It was only gradually that 
the mistake came to be understood. On us there was 
still the horror of the bill, the extent of which could 
not be known till the hour of departure had come. 
The landlord, however, had acknowledged to himself 
that his inductions had been ill-founded, and he treated 
us with clemency. He had never before received a 
telegram. 

I apologize for these tales, which are certainly out- 
side my purpose, and will endeavor to tell no more that 
shall not have a closer relation to my story. I had 
finished " The Three Clerks " just before I left Eng- 
land, and when in Florence was cudgelling my brain 
for a new plot. Being then with my brotlier, I asked 
him to sketch me a plot, and he drew out that of my 
next novel, called "Doctor Thorne." I mention this 
particularly, because it was the only occasion in which 
I have had recourse to some other source than my own 
brains for the thread of a story. How far I may un- 
consciously have adopted incidents from what I have 
read — either from history or from works of imagina- 



''The Three ClerhsP m 

tion — I do not know. It is beyond question that a man 
employed as I have been must do so. But when doing 
it I have not been aware that I have done it. I have 
never taken another man's work, and deliberately 
framed my work upon it. I am far from censuring 
this practice in others. Our greatest masters in works 
of imagination have obtained such aid for themselves. 
Shakespeare dug out of such quarries wherever he could 
find them. Ben Jonson, with heavier hand, built up 
his structures on his studies of the classics, not think- 
ing it beneath him to give, without direct acknowledg- 
ment, whole pieces translated both from poets and his- 
torians. But in those days no such acknowledgment 
was usual. Plagiary existed, and was very common, 
but was not known as a sin. It is different now ; and 
I think that an author, when he uses either the words 
or the plot of another, should own as much, demanding 
to be credited w4th no more of the work than he has 
himself produced. I may say also that I have never 
printed as my own a word that has been written by 
others.* It might probably have been better for my 
readers had I done so, as I am informed that " Doctor 
Thorne," the novel of which I am now speaking, has a 
larger sale than any other book of mine. 

Early in 1858, while I was writing " Doctor Thorne," 
I was asked by the great men at the General Post-ofiice 
to go to Egypt to make a treaty with the Pasha for the 
conveyance of our mails through that country by rail- 

* I must make one exception to this declaration. The legal opinion as 
to heirlooms in "The Eustace Diamonds " was written for me by Charles 
Merewether, the present Member for Northampton. I am told that it 
has become the ruling authority on the subject. 

6* 



106 . Autobiography of Anthony Trollojpe. 

way. There was a treaty in existence, but that had 
reference to the carriage of bags and boxes by camels 
from Alexandria to Suez. Since its date the railway 
had grown, and was now nearly completed, and a new 
treaty was wanted. So I came over from Dublin to 
London, on my road, and again went to work among 
the publishers. The other novel was not finished; but 
I thought I had now progressed far enough to arrange 
a sale while the work was still on the stocks. I went 
to Mr. Bentley and demanded £400 — for the copyright. 
He acceded, but came to me the next morning at the 
General Post-office to say that it could not be. He had 
gone to work at his figures after I had left him, and 
had found that £300 would be the outside value of the 
novel. I was intent upon the larger sum ; and in furi- 
ous haste — for I had but an hour at my disposal — I 
rushed to Chapman & Hall in Piccadilly, and said what 
I had to say to Mr. Edward Chapman in a quick tor- 
rent of words. They were the first of a great many 
words w^hich have since been spoken by me in that 
back-shop. Looking at me as he might have done at a 
highway robber who had stopped him on Hounslow 
Heath, he said that he supposed he might as well do as 
I desired. I considered this to be a sale, and it was a 
sale. I remember that he held the poker in his hand 
all the time that I was with him — but in truth, even 
though he had declined to buy the book, there would 
have been no danger. 



''Doctor ThorneP 107 



Chapter YII. 

''DOCTOR THORNE." — "THE BERTRAMS."— " THE WEST 
INDIES AND THE SPANISH MAIN." 

As I journeyed across France to Marseilles, and made 
thence a terribly rough voyage to Alexandria, I wrote 
my allotted number of pages every day. On this occa- 
sion more than once I left my paper on the cabin table, 
rushing away to be sick in the privacy of my state- 
room. It was February, and the weather was miserable ; 
but still I did my work. Labor omnia mncit improbits. 
I do not say that to all men has been given physical 
strength sufficient for such exertion as this, but I do be- 
lieve that real exertion will enable most men to work 
at almost any season. I had previously to this ar- 
ranged a system of task-w^ork for myself, which I would 
strongly recommend to those who feel as I have felt, 
that labor, when not made absolutely obligatory by the 
circumstances of the hour, should never be allowed to 
become spasmodic. There was no day on which it was 
my positive duty to write for the publishers, as it was 
my duty to write reports for the Post-office. I was free 
to be idle if I pleased. But as I had made up my mind 
to undertake this second profession, I found it to be 
expedient to bind myself by certain self-imposed laws. 
When I have commenced a new book, I have always 
prepared a diary, divided into weeks, and carried it on 



108 Autobiography of Anthony Trollope. 

for the period wliicli I have allowed myself for the 
completion of the work. In this I have entered, day 
by day, the number of pages I have written, so that if 
at any time I have slipped into idleness for a day or 
two, the record of that idleness has been there, staring 
me in the face, and demanding of me increased labor, 
so that the deficiency might be supplied. According to 
the circumstances of the time — whether my other busi- 
ness might be then heavy or light, or whether the book 
which I was writing was or was not wanted with speed 
— I have allotted myself so many pages a week. The 
average number has been about 40. It has been placed 
as low as 20, and has risen to 112. And as a page is 
an ambiguous term, my page has been made to contain 
250 words ; and as words, if not watched, will have a 
tendency to straggle, I have had every word counted as 
I went. In the bargains I have made with publishers 
I have — not, of course, with their knowledge, but in my 
own mind — undertaken always to supply them with so 
many words, and I have never put a book out of hand 
short of the number by a single word. I may also say 
that the excess has been very small. I have prided my- 
self on completing my work exactly within the pro- 
posed dimensions. But I have prided myself especially 
in completing it within the proposed time — and I have 
always done so. There has ever been the record before 
me, and a week passed with an insufficient number of 
pages has been a blister to my eye, and a month so dis- 
graced would have been a sorrow to my heart. 

I have been told that such appliances are beneath 
the notice of a man of genius. I have never fancied 
myself to be a man of genius, but had I been so I think 



^^ Doctor ThorneP 109 

I miglit well have subjected myself to these trammels. 
Nothing, surely, is so potent as a law that may not be 
disobeyed. It has the force of the water-drop that hol- 
lows the stone. A small daily task, if it be really daily, 
will beat the labors of a spasmodic Hercules. It is the 
tortoise which always catches the hare. The hare has 
no chance. He loses more time in glorifying himself 
for a quick spurt than suffices for the tortoise to make 
half his journey. 

I have known authors whose lives have always been 
troublesome and painful because their tasks have never 
been done in time. They have ever been as boys 
struggling to learn their lesson as they entered the 
school gates. Publishers have distrusted them, and they 
have failed to write their best, because they have sel- 
dom written at ease. I have done double their work — 
though burdened with another profession — and have 
done it almost without an effort. I have not once, 
through all my literary career, felt myself even in dan- 
ger of being late with my task. I have known no 
anxiety as to '* copy." The needed pages far ahead — 
very far ahead — have almost always been in the drawer 
beside me. And that little diary, with its dates and ruled 
spaces, its record that must be seen, its daily, weekly de- 
mand upon my industry, has done all that for me. 

There are those who would be ashamed to subject 
themselves to such a taskmaster, and who think that 
the man who works with his imagination should allow 
himself to wait till — inspiration moves him. When I 
have heard such doctrine preached, I have hardly been 
able to repress my scorn. To me it would not be more 
absurd, if the shoemaker were to wait for inspiration, 



110 Autdbiograjphy of Anthony Trollojpe. 

or the tallow-chandler for the divine moment of melt- 
insr. If the man whose business it is to write has eaten 
too many good things, or lias drunk too much, or 
smoked too many cigars — as men who write sometimes 
will do — then his condition may be unfavorable for 
work ; but so will be the condition of a shoemaker who 
has been similarly imprudent. I have sometimes 
thought that the inspiration wanted has been the rem- 
edy which time will give to the evil results of such 
imprudence. Mens sana in corpore sano. The author 
wants that, as does every other workman — that and a 
habit of industr3\ I was once told that the surest aid 
to the writing of a book was a piece of cobbler's wax 
on my chair. I certainly believe in the cobbler's wax, 
much more than the inspiration. 

It will be said, perhaps, that a man whose work has 
risen to no higher pitch than mine has attained has no 
right to speak of the strains and impulses to which real 
genius is exposed. I am ready to admit the great vari- 
ations in brain power which are exhibited by the prod- 
ucts of different men, and am not disposed to rank my 
own very high ; but my own experience tells me that a 
man can always do the work for which his brain is fit- 
ted if he will give himself the habit of regarding his 
work as a normal condition of his life. I therefore 
venture to advise young men who look forward to au- 
thorship as the business of their lives, even when they 
propose that that authorship sliall be of the highest class 
known, to avoid enthusiastic rushes with their pens, 
and to seat themselves at their desks day by day, as 
though they were lawyers' clerks ; and so let them sit 
until the allotted task shall be accomplished. 



^^The Bertrams^ 111 

"While I was in Egypt I finished " Doctor Thome," 
and on the following day began " The Bertrams." I 
was moved now by a determination to excel, if not in 
quality, at any rate in quantity. An ignoble ambition 
for an author, my readers will no doubt say. But not, 
I think, altogether ignoble, if an author can bring him- 
self to look at his work as does any other workman. 
This had become ray task, this was the furrow in which 
my plough was set, this was the thing the doing of 
which had fallen into my hands, and I was minded to 
work at it with a will. It is not on my conscience 
that I have ever scamped my work. My novels, 
whether good or bad, have been as good as I could 
make them. Had I taken three months of idleness be- 
tween each, they would have been no better. Feeling 
convinced of that, I finished "Doctor Thorne" on one 
day, and began " The Bertrams " on the next. 

I had then been nearly two mouths in Egypt, and 
had at last succeeded in settling the terms of a postal 
treaty. Nearly twenty years have passed since that 
time, and other years may yet. run on before these 
pages are printed. I trust I may commit no official sin 
by describing here the nature of the difficulty which 
met me. I found, on my arrival, that I was to com- 
municate with an officer of the Pasha, who was then 
called ISfubar Bey. I presume him to have been the 
gentleman who has lately dealt with our government 
as to the Suez Canal shares, and who is now well 
known to the political world as Nubar Pasha. I 
found him a most courteous gentleman, an Armenian. 
I never went to his office, nor do I know that he had 
an office. Every other day he would come to me at 



112 Autobiography of Anthony Trollope. 

my hotel, and bring with him servants, and pipes, and 
coffee. I enjoyed his coming greatly ; but there was one 
point on which we could not agree. As to money and 
other details, it seemed as though he could hardly ac- 
cede fast enough to the wishes of the Postmaster-gen- 
eral; but on one point he was firmly opposed to me. 
I was desirous that the mails should be carried through 
Egypt in twenty-four hours, and he thought that fort}^- 
eight hours should be allowed. I was obstinate, and he 
was obstinate ; and for a long time we could come to no 
agreement. At last his Oriental tranquillity seemed to 
desert him, and he took upon himself to assure me, with 
almost more than British energy, that, if I insisted on 
the quick transit, a terrible responsibility would rest on 
my head. I made this mistake, he said — that I sup- 
posed that a rate of travelling which would be easy 
and secure in England, could be attained with safety in 
Egypt. " The Pasha, his master, would," he said, " no 
doubt accede to any terms demanded by the British 
Post-office, so great was his reverence for everything 
British. In that case he, Nubar, would at once resign 
his position, and retire into obscurity. He would be 
ruined ; but the loss of life and bloodshed which would 
certainly follow so rash an attempt should not be on his 
head." I smoked my pipe, or rather his, and drank 
his coffee, with Oriental quiescence, but British firm- 
ness.. Every now and again, through three or four vis- 
its, I renewed the expression of my opinion that the 
transit could easily be made in twenty-four hours. At 
last he gave way — and astonished me by the cordiality 
of his greeting. There was no longer any question of 
bloodshed or of resignation of office, and he assured me, 



"TA^ BertramsP 113 

with energetic complaisance, that it should be his care 
to see that the time was punctually kept. It was 
punctually kept, and, I believe, is so still. I must con- 
fess, however, that my persistency was not the result of 
any courage specially personal to myself. While the 
matter was being debated, it had been whispered to me 
that the Peninsular and Oriental Steamship Company 
had conceived that forty-eight hours would suit the 
purposes of their traffic better than twenty-four, and 
that, as they were the great paymasters on the rail- 
way, the minister of the Egyptian state, who managed 
the railway, might probably wish to accommodate 
them. I often wondered who orio^inated that frio^ht- 
ful picture of blood and desolation. That it came 
from an English heart and an English hand I was al- 
ways sure. 

From Egypt I visited the Holy Land, and, on my 
way, inspected the Post-offices at Malta and Gibraltar. 
I could fill a volume with true tales of my adventures. 

The ^' Tales of All Countries" have, most of them, 
some foundation in such occurrences. There is one 
called " John Bull on the Guadalquivir," the chief in- 
cident in which occurred to me and a friend of mine, 
on our way up that river to Seville. We both of us 
handled the gold ornaments of a man whom we be- 
lieved to be a bull-fighter, but who turned out to be a 
duke — and a duke, too, who could speak English! 
How gracious he w^as to us, and yet how thoroughly 
he covered us with ridicule ! 

On my return home I received £400 from Messrs. 
Chapman & Hall for " Doctor Thorne," and agreed 
to sell them '* The Bertrams " for the same sum. This 



114 Autobiography of Anthony Trollope, 

latter novel was written under very vagrant circum- 
stances — at Alexandria, Malta, Gibraltar, Glasgow, 
then at sea, and at last finished in Jamaica. Of my 
journey to the West Indies 1 will say a few words 
presently, but I may as well speak of these two novels 
here. " Doctor Thorne " has, I believe, been the most 
popular book that I have written — if I may take the 
sale as a proof of comparative popularity. " The Ber- 
trams " has had quite an opposite fortune. I do not 
know that I have ever heard it well spoken of even by 
my friends, and J cannot remember that there is any 
character in it that has dwelt in the minds of novel- 
readers. I myself think that they are of about equal 
merit, but that neither of them is good;' They fall 
away very much from "The Three Clerks," both in 
pathos and humor. There is no personage in either of 
them comparable to Chaffanbrass the lawyer. The 
plot of " Doctor Thorne " is good, and I am led there- 
fore to suppose that a good plot — which, to my own 
feeling, is the most insignificant part of a tale — is that 
which will most raise it or most condemn it in the 
public judgment. The plots of " Tom Jones " and of 
" Ivanhoe " are almost perfect, and they are probably the 
most popular novels of the schools of the last and of 
this century ; but to me the delicacy of Amelia, and the 
nigged strength of Burley and Meg Merrilies, say more 
for the power of those great novelists than the gift of 
construction shown in the two works I have named. 
A novel should give a picture of common life enlivened 
by humor and sweetened by pathos. To make that 
picture worthy of attention, the canvas should be 
crowded with real portraits, not of individuals known 



"TA^ Bertrams^ 115 

to the world, or to the author, but of created person- 
ages impregnated with traits of character which are 
known. To my thinking, the plot is but the vehicle 
for all this; and when you have the vehicle, without 
the passengers, a story of mystery, in which the agents 
never spring to life, you have but a wooden show. 
There must, however, be a story. You must provide a 
vehicle of some sort. That of "The Bertrams "was 
more than ordinarily bad ; and as the book was relieved 
by no special character, it failed. Its failure never 
surprised me ; but I have been surprised by the success 
of " Doctor Thorne." 

At this time there was nothing in the success of the 
one or the failure of the other to affect me very great- 
ly. The immediate sale, and the notices elicited from 
the critics, and the feeling which had now come to me 
of a confident standing with the publishers, all made 
me know that I had achieved my object. If I wrote 
a novel, I could certainly sell it. And if I could pub- 
lish three in two years — confining myself to half the fe- 
cundity of that terrible author of whom the publish- 
er in Paternoster Row had complained to me — I might 
add £600 a year to my oflScial income. I was still liv- 
ing in Ireland, and could keep a good house over my 
head, insure my life, educate my two boys, and hunt 
perhaps twice a week, on £1400 a year. If more 
should come, it would be well — but £600 a year I was 
prepared to reckon as success. It had been slow in 
coming, but was very pleasant when it came. 

On my return from Egypt I was sent down to Scot- 
land to revise the Glasgow Post-office. I almost forget 
now what it was that I had to do there, but I know 



116 AutoUogrwphy of Anthony Trolloj^e, 

that I walked all over tlie city with the letter-carriers, 
going lip to the top flats of the houses, as the men 
would have declared me incompetent to judge the ex- 
tent of their labors had I not trudged every step with 
them. It was midsummer, and wearier work I never 
performed. The men would grumble, and then I 
would think how it would be with them if they had to 
go home afterwards and write a love-scene. But the 
love-scenes written in Glasgow, all belonging to " The 
Bertrams," are not good. 

Then, in the autumn of that year, 1868, I was asked 
to go to the West Indies, and cleanse the Augean sta- 
bles of our Post-office system there. Up to that time, 
and at that time, our colonial Post-offices generally 
were managed from home, and were subject to the 
British Postmaster-general. Gentlemen were sent out 
from England to be postmasters, surveyors, and what 
not ; and as our West Indian islands have never been 
regarded as being of themselves happily situated for 
residence, the gentlemen so sent were sometimes more 
conspicuous for want of income than for official zeal 
and ability. Hence the stables had become Augean. 
I was also instructed to carry out in some of the islands 
a plan for giving up this postal authority to the island 
governor, and in others to propose some such plan. I 
was then to go on to Cuba, to make a postal treaty 
with the Spanish authorities, and to Panama for the 
same purpose with the government of New Grenada. 
All this work I performed to my satisfaction, aijd I 
hope to that of my masters in St. Martin's-le-Graud. 

But the trip is at the present moment of importance 
to my subject, as having enabled me to write that 



'-''The ^^est Indies and the Spanish Main.''"' 117 

whicli, on the wliole, I regard as the best book that has 
come from my pen. It is short, and, I think I may 
venture to say, amusing, useful, and true. As soon as 
I had learned from the secretary at the General Post- 
office that this journey would be required, I proposed 
the book to Messrs. Chapman & Hall, demanding £250 
for a single volume. Tlie contract was made without 
any difficulty, and when I returned home the work was 
complete in my desk. I began it on board the ship in 
w^hich I left Kingston, Jamaica, for Cuba, and from 
week to week I carried it on as I went. From Cuba I 
made my way to St. Thomas, and through the island 
down to Demerara, then back to St. Thomas — which is 
the starting-point for all places in that part of the 
globe — to Santa Martha, Carthagena, Aspinwall, over 
the Isthmus to Panama, up the Pacific to a little harbor 
on the coast of Costa Pica, thence across Central Amer- 
ica, through Costa Pica, and down the I^icaragua Piver 
to the Mosquito coast, and after that home by Bermuda 
and ISTew York. Should any one want further details 
of the voyage, are they not written in my book ? The 
fact memorable to me now is that I never made a sin- 
gle note while writing or preparing it. Preparation, 
indeed, there was none. The descriptions and opinions 
came hot on to the paper from their causes. I will not 
say that this is the best way of writing a book intended 
to give accurate information. But it is the best way 
of producing, to the eye of the reader, and to his ear, 
that which the eye of the writer has seen and his ear 
heard. There are two kinds of confidence which a 
reader may have in his author — which two kinds the 
reader who wishes to use his reading well should care- 



118 Atdobiography of Anthony Trollojpe, 

fully discriminate. There is a confidence in facts and 
a confidence in vision. The one man tells you accu- 
rately what has been. The other suggests to you what 
may, or perhaps what must have been, or what ought 
to have been. The former requires simple faith. The 
latter calls upon you to judge for yourself, and form 
your own conclusions. The former does not intend to 
be prescient, nor the latter accurate. Research is the 
weapon used by the former ; observation by the latter. 
Either may be false — wilfully false ; as also may either 
be steadfastly true. As to that, the reader must judge 
for himself. But the man who writes currente calamo^ 
who works with a rapidity which will not admit of ac- 
curacy, may be as true, and in one sense as trustworthy, 
as he who bases every word upon a rock of facts. I 
have written very much as I have travelled about ; and 
though I have been very inaccurate, I have always 
written the exact truth as I saw it ; and I have, I think, 
drawn my pictures correctly. 

The view I took of the relative position in the West 
Indies of black men and w^hite men was the view of 
the Times newspaper at that period; and there ap- 
peared three articles in that journal, one closely after 
another, which made the fortune of the book. Had it 
been very bad, I suppose its fortune could not have 
been made for it even by the Times newspaper. I 
afterwards became acquainted with the w^riter of those 
articles, the contributor himself informing me that he 
had written them. I told him that he had done me a 
greater service than can often be done by one man to an- 
other, but that I was under no obligation to him. I do 
not think that he saw the matter quite in the same light. 



^^TJie West Indies and the Spanish MainP 119 

I am aware that by that criticism I was much raised 
in mj position as an author. Whether such lifting up 
by such means is good or bad for literature is a ques- 
tion which I hope to discuss in a future chapter. But 
the result was immediate to me, for I at once went to 
Chapman & Hall and successfully demanded £600 for 
my next novel. 



120 Autobiography of Anthony Trollope, 



Chapter YIII. 

THE "CORNHILL MAGAZINE" AND "FRAMLEY PAR- 
SONAGE." 

Soox after my return from the West Indies I was 
enabled to change my district in Ireland for one in 
England. For some time past my official work had 
been of a special nature, taking me out of my own dis- 
trict ; but through all that, Dublin had been my home, 
and there my wife and children had lived. I had often 
sighed to return to England, with a silly longing. My 
life in England for twenty-six years, from the time of 
my birth to the day on which I left it, had been 
wretched. I had been poor, friendless, and joyless. In 
Ireland it had constantly been happy. I had achieved 
the respect of all with whom I was concerned, I had 
made for myself a comfortable home, and I had en- 
joyed many pleasures. Hunting, itself, was a great de- 
light to me; and now, as I contemplated a move to 
England, and a house in tlie neighborhood of London, 
I felt that hunting must be abandoned.* Nevertlie- 
less I thought that a man who could write books ought 
not to live in Ireland — ought to live within the reach 
of the publishers, the clubs, and tlie dinner-parties of 
the metropolis. So I made my request at headquarters, 
and with some little difficulty got myself appointed to 
* It was not abandoned till sixteen more years had passed away. 



^'Cornhill MagazineP 13j 

the Eastern District of England — which comprised 
Essex, Suffolk, ]N"orfolk, Cambridgeshire, Huntingdon- 
shire, and the greater part of Hertfordshire. 

At this time I did not stand very well with the dom- 
inant interest at the General Post-office. My old friend 
Colonel Maberly had been some time since squeezed 
into, and his place was filled by Mr. Kowland Hill, the 
originator of the penny post. With him I never had 
any sympathy, nor he with me. In figures and facts he 
was most accurate, but I never came across any one who 
so little understood the ways of men — unless it was his 
brother Frederic. To the two brothers the servants of 
the Post-office — men numerous enough to have formed 
a large army in old days — were so many machines who 
could be counted on for their exact w^ork without devi- 
ation, as wheels may be counted on which are kept go- 
ing always at the same pace and always by the same 
power. Powland Hill was an industrious public ser- 
vant, anxious for the good of liis country ; but he was a 
hard taskmaster, and one who would, I think, have put 
the great department with which he was concerned al- 
together out of gear by his hardness, had ho not been 
at last controlled. He was the chief secretary; my 
brother-in-law — who afterwards succeeded him — came 
next to him, and Mr. HilPs brother was the junior sec- 
retary. In the natural course of things I had not, from 
my position, anything to do with the management of 
affairs; but from time to time I found myself more or 
less mixed up in it. I was known to be a thoroughly 
efficient public servant — I am sure I may say so much 
of myself without fear of contradiction from any one 
who has known the Post-office — I was very fond of the 

6 



122 Autobiograjphy of Anthony Trollojpe. 

department, and, when matters came to be considered, I 
generally bad an opinion of my own. I bave no donbt 
tbat I often made myself very disagreeable. I know 
tbat I sometimes tried to do so. But I could bold my 
own, because I knew my business and was useful. I 
bad given official offence by tbe publication of " Tbe 
Tbree Clerks." I afterwards gave greater offence by a 
lecture on tbe civil service, wbicb I delivered in one of 
tbe large rooms at tbe General Post-office, to tbe clerks 
tbere. On tbis occasion tbe Postmaster -general, witb 
wbom personally I enjoyed friendly terms, sent for me 
and told me tbat Mr. Hill bad told bim tbat I ougbt to 
be dismissed. Wben I asked bis lordsbip wbetber be 
was prepared to dismiss me be only laugbed. Tbe 
tbreat was no tbreat to me, as I knew myself to be too 
good to be treated in tbat fasbion. Tbe lecture bad 
been permitted, and I bad disobeyed no order. In tbe 
lecture wbicb I delivered tbere was notbing to bring 
me to sbame; but it advocated tbe doctrine tbat a civil 
servant is only a servant as far as bis contract goes, and 
tbat be is, beyond tbat, entitled to be as free a man in 
politics, as free in bis general pursuits, and as free in 
opinion, as tbose wbo are in open professions and open 
trades. All tbis is very nearly admitted now, but it 
certainly was not admitted tben. At tbat time no one 
in tbe Post-office could even vote for a Member of Par- 
liament. 

Tbrougb my wbole official life I did my best to im- 
prove tbe style of official writing. I bave written, I 
sbould tbink, some tbousands of reports, many of tbem 
necessarily very long ; some of tbem dealing witb sub- 
jects so absurd as to allow a toucb of burlesque ; some 



'^Cornhill Magazine^ 123 

few in which a spark of indignation or a slight glow 
of pathos might find an entrance. I have taken infi- 
nite pains with these reports, habituating myself al- 
ways to write them in the form in which they should 
be sent — without a copy. It is by writing thus that a 
man can throw on to his paper the exact feeling with 
w^hich his mind is impressed at the moment. A rough 
copy, or that which is called a draft, is written in order 
that it may be touched and altered and put upon stilts. 
The waste of time, moreover, in such an operation is 
terrible. If a man knows his craft with his pen, he will 
have learned to write without the necessity of changing 
his words or the form of his sentences. I had learned 
so to write my reports that they who read them should 
know what it was that I meant them to understand. 
But I do not think that they were regarded with favor. 
I have heard horror expressed because the old forms 
were disregarded and language used which had no savor 
of red tape. During the whole of this work in the 
Post-office it was my principle always to obey authority 
in everything, instantly, but never to allow my mouth 
to be closed as to the expression of my opinion. They 
who had the ordering of me very often did not know 
the work as I knew it — could not tell, as I could, what 
would be the effect of this or that change. When car- 
rying out instructions which I knew should not have 
been given, I never scrupled to point out the fatuity of 
the improper order in the strongest language that I 
could decently employ. I have revelled in these official 
correspondences, and look back to some of them as the 
greatest delights of my life. But I am not sure that 
they were so delightful to others. 



124 Autobiography of Anthony Trollojpe. 

I succeeded, however, in getting the English district 
— which could hardly have been refused to me — and 
prepared to change our residence towards the end of 
1859. At the time I was writing " Castle Kichmond," 
the novel which I had sold to Messrs. Chapman & Hall 
for £600. But there arose at this time a certain literary 
project which probably had a great effect upon my career. 
While travelling on postal service abroad, or riding over 
the rural districts in England, or arranging the mails in 
Ireland — and such for the last eighteen years had now 
been my life — I had no opportunity of becoming ac- 
quainted with literary life in London. It was probably 
some feeling of this which had made me anxious to 
move my penates back to England. But even in Ire- 
land, where I was still living in October, 1859, I had 
heard of tlie Cornhill Magazine^ which was to come out 
on the 1st of January, 1860, under "the editorship of 
Thackeray. 

I had at this time written from time to time certain 
short stories, which had been published in different pe- 
riodicals, and which in due time were republished under 
the name of " Tales of All Countries." On the 23d of 
October, 1859, 1 wrote to Thackeray, whom I had, I think, 
never then seen, offering to send him for the magazine 
certain of these stories. In reply to this I received two 
letters— one from Messrs. Smith & Elder, the proprietors 
of the Cornhill, dated 26th of October, and the other 
from the editor, written two days later. That from Mr. 
Thackeray was as follows : 

" 36 Onslow Square, S. W., October 28. 
"My dear Mr. Trollope,— Smith & Elder have sent you their pro- 
posals ; and the business part done, let me come to the pleasure, and say 



^'Cornhill MagazineP 125 

how very glad indeed I shall be to have you as a co-operator in our new 
magazine. And, looking over the annexed programme, you will see 
whether you can't help us in many other ways besides tale-telling. What- 
ever a man knows about life and its doings, that let us hear about. You 
must have tossed a good deal about the world, and have countless sketches 
in your memory and your portfolio. Please to think if you can furbish 
up any of these besides a novel. When events occur, and you have a good 
lively tale, bear us in mind. One of our chief objects in this magazine is 
the getting out of novel spinning, and back into the world. Don't under- 
stand me to disparage our craft, especially your wares. I often say I am 
like the pastrycook, and don't care for tarts, but prefer bread-and-cheese ; 
but the public love the tarts (luckily for us), and we must bake and sell 
them. There was quite an excitement in my family one evening when 
Paterfamilias (who goes to sleep on a novel almost always, when he tries it 
after dinner) came up-stairs into the drawing-room wide awake and call- 
ing for the second volume of "The Three Clerks." I hope the Comhill 
Magazine will have as pleasant a story. And the Chapmans, if they are 
the honest men I take them to be, Pve no doubt have told you with what 
sincere liking your works have been read by 

" Yours very faithfully, W. M. Thackeray." 

This was very pleasant, and so was the letter from 
Smith c% Elder offering me £1000 for the copyright of 
a three-volume novel, to come out in the new magazine 
— on condition that the first portion of it should be in 
their hands by December 12. There was much in all 
this that astonished me — in the first place, the price, 
which was more than double what I had yet received, 
and -nearly double that which I was about to receive 
from Messrs. Chapman & Hall. Then there was the 
suddenness of the call. It was already the end of Oc- 
tober, and a portion of the work was required to be in 
the printer's hands within six wrecks. " Castle Rich- 
mond " was, indeed, half written, but that was sold to 
Chapman. And it had always been a principle with 
me in my art that no part of a novel should be published 



126 Aiitobiogrwphy of Anthony TroUope, 

till the entire storj was completed. I knew, from what 
I read from month to month, that this hurried publica- 
tion of incompleted work was frequently, I might per- 
haps say always, adopted by the leading novelists of the 
day. That such has been the case is proved by the fact 
that Dickens, Thackeray, and Mrs. Gaskell died with un- 
finished novels, of which portions had been already pub- 
lished. I had not yet entered upon the system of pub- 
lishing novels in parts, and therefore had never been 
tempted. But I was aware that an artist should keep 
in his hand the power of fitting the beginning of his 
work to the end. l^o doubt it is his first duty to fit the 
end to the beginning, and he will endeavor to do so. 
But he should still keep in his hands the power of rem- 
edying any defect in this respect. 

"Servetur adimum 
Qualis ab incepto pvocesserit," 

should be kept in view as to every character and every 
string of action. Your Achilles should, all through, 
from beginning to end, be "impatient, fiery, ruthless, 
keen." Your Achilles, such as he is, will probably keep 
up his character. But your Davus also should be always 
Davus, and that is more difiicult. The rustic, driving 
his pigs to market, cannot alwaj^s make them travel by 
the exact path which he has intended for them. "When 
some young lady at the end of a story cannot be made 
quite perfect in her conduct, that vivid description of 
angelic purity w^ith which you laid the first lines of her 
portrait should be slightly toned down. I had felt that 
the rushing mode of publication to which the system of 
serial stories had given rise, and by which small parts, as 
they were written, were sent hot to the press, was inju- 



'^Cornhill Magazine^ 127 

rious to the work done. If I now complied with the 
proposition made to me, I must act against my own 
principle. But such a principle becomes a tyrant if it 
cannot be superseded on a just occasion. If the reason 
be " tanti," the principle should for the occasion be put 
in abeyance. I sat as judge, and decreed that the pres- 
ent reason was " tanti." On this, my first attempt at a 
serial story, I thought it fit to break my own rule. I 
can say, however, that I have never broken it since. 

But what astonished me most was the fact that at so 
late a day this new Cornhill Magazine should be in 
want of a novel ! Perhaps some of my future readers 
will be able to remember the great expectations which 
were raised as to this periodical. Thackeray's was a 
good name with which to conjure. The proprietors, 
Messrs. Smith & Elder, were most liberal in their man- 
ner of initiating the work, and were able to make an 
expectant world of readers believe that something was 
to be given tliem for a shilling very much in excess of 
anything they had ever received for that or double the 
money. Whether these hopes were or were not fulfilled 
it is not for me to say, as, for tlie first few years of the 
magazine's existence, I wrote for it more than any other 
one person. But such was certainly the prospect ; and 
liow had it come to pass that, with such promises made, 
the editor and the proprietors were, at the end of Octo- 
ber, without anything fixed as to what must be regarded 
as the chief dish in the banquet to be provided ? 

I fear that the answer to this question must be found 
in the habits of procrastination wliich had at that time 
grown upon the editor. He had, I imagine, undertaken 
the work himself, and had postponed its commencement 



128 Autobiograjphy of Anthony Trollojye. 

till there was left to him no time for commencing. 
There was still, it may be said, as much time for him as 
for me. I think there was — for though he had his 
magazine to look after, I had the Post-office. But he 
thought, when unable to trust his own energy, that he 
might rely upon that of a new recruit. He was but 
four years my senior in life, but he was at the top of 
the tree, while I was still at the bottom. 

Having made up my mind to break my principle, I 
started at once from Dublin to London. I arrived there 
on the morning of Thursday, November 3, and left 
it on the evening of Friday. In the meantime I had 
made my agreement with Messrs. Smith & Elder, and 
had arranged my plot. But, when in London, I first 
went to Edward Chapman, at 193 Piccadilly. If the 
novel I was then writing for him would suit the Corn- 
hill^ might I consider my arrangement with him to be 
at an end ? Yes ; I might. But if that story would not 
suit the Cornhill^ was I to consider my arrangement 
with him as still standing — that agreement requiring that 
my manuscript should be in his hands in the following 
March ? As to that, I might do as I pleased. In our 
dealings together Mr. Edward Chapman always acceded 
to every suggestion made to him. He never refused a 
book, and never haggled at a price. Then I hurried 
into the City, and had my first interview with Mr. 
George Smith. When he heard that " Castle Pich- 
mond " was an Irish story, he begged that I would en- 
deavor to frame some other for his magazine. He was 
sure that an Irish story would not do for a commence- 
ment ; and he suggested the Church, as though it were 
my peculiar subject. I told him that " Castle Pich- 



^^FramUy ParsonageP 129 

mond" would have to "come out" while any other 
novel that I might write for him would be running 
through the magazine ; but to that he expressed himself 
altogether indifferent. He wanted an English tale, on 
English life, with a clerical flavor. On these orders 
I went to work, and framed what I suppose I must call 
the plot of " Framley Parsonage." 

On my journey back to Ireland, in the railway car- 
riage, I wrote the first few pages of that story. I had 
got into my head an idea of what I meant to write — a 
morsel of the biography of an English clergyman who 
should not be a bad man, but one led into temptation 
by his own youth and by the unclerical accidents of the 
life of those around him. The love of his sister for the 
young lord was an adjunct necessary, because there 
must be love in a novel. And then, by placing Fram- 
ley Parsonage near Barchester, I was able to fall back 
upon my old friends Mrs. Proudie and the archdeacon. 
Out of these slight elements I fabricated a hodge-podge 
in which the real plot consisted at last simply of a girl 
refusing to marry the man she loved till the man's 
friends agreed to accept her lovingly. E'othing could 
be less efficient or artistic. But the characters were so 
well handled that the work, from the first to the last, 
was popular, and was received as it went on with still 
increasing favor by both editor and proprietor of the 
magazine. The story was thoroughly English. There 
was a little fox-hunting and a little tuft-hunting; some 
Christian virtue and some Christian cant. There was 
no heroism and no villany. There was much Church, 
but more love-making. And it was downright, honest 
love, in which there was no pretence on the part of the 

6* 



130 Autobiography of Anthony Trollojpe. 

lady tliat she was too ethereal to be fond of a man, no 
half-and-half inclination on the part of the man to pay 
a certain price and no more for a pretty toy. Each of 
them longed for the other, and they were not ashamed 
to say so. Consequently, they in England who were 
living, or had lived, the same sort of life, liked " Eram- 
ley Parsonage." I think myself that Lucy Eobarts is, 
perhaps, the most natural English girl that I ever drew 
— the most natural, at any rate, of those who have 
been good girls. She was not as dear to me as Kate 
Woodward in *' The Three Clerks," but I think she is 
more like real human life. Indeed, I doubt whether 
such a character could be made more lifelike than Lucy 
Kobarts. 

And I will say also that in this novel there is no very 
weak part, no long succession of dull pages. The pro- 
duction of novels in serial form forces upon the author 
the conviction that he should not allow himself to be 
tedious in any single part. I hope no reader will mis- 
understand me. In spite of that conviction, the writer 
of stories in parts will often be tedious. That I have 
been so myself is a fault that will lie heavy on my tomb- 
stone. But the writer, when he embarks in such a busi- 
ness, should feel that he cannot afford to have many 
pages skipped out of the few which are to meet the 
reader's eye at the same time. "Who can imagine the 
first half of the first volume of "AVaverley" coming 
out in shilling numbers? I had realized this when I 
was writing " Framley Parsonage ;" and, working on the 
conviction which had thus come home to me, I fell into 
no bathos of dulness. 

I subsequently came across a piece of criticism which 



^'Framley Parsonage.'''' 181 

was written on me as a novelist by a brother novelist 
very much greater than myself, and whose brilliant in- 
tellect and warm imagination led him to a kind of work 
the very opposite of jnine. This was ]N"athaniel Haw- 
thorne, the American, whom I did not then know, but 
whose works I knew. Though it praises myself highly, 
I will insert it here, because it certainly is true in its 
nature : " It is odd enough," he says, " that my own in- 
dividual taste is for quite another class of works than 
those which I myself am able to write. If I were to 
meet with such books as mine, by another writer, I don't 
believe I should be able to get through them. Have 
you ever read the novels of Anthony Trollope? They 
precisely suit my taste — solid and substantial, written 
on the strength of beef and through the inspiration of 
ale, and just as real as if some giant had hewn a great 
lump out of the earth and put it under a glass case, 
with all its inhabitants going about their daily business, 
and not suspecting that they were being made a show 
of. And these books are just as English as a beef- 
steak. Have they ever been tried in America? It 
needs an English residence to make them thoroughly 
comprehensible, but still I should think that human 
nature would give them success anywhere." 

This was dated early in 1860, and could have had no 
reference to " Framley Parsonage ;" but it was as true 
of that work as of any that I have w^ritten. And the 
criticism, wdiether just or unjust, describes with wonder- 
ful accuracy the purport that I have ever had in view 
in my writing. I have always desired to "hew out 
some lump of the earth," and to make men and women 
walk upon it just as they do walk here among us — with 



132 Autobiography of Anthony Trollope. 

not more of excellence, nor with exaggerated baseness 
— so that my readers might recognize human beings 
like to themselves, and not feel themselves to be carried 
away among gods or demons. If I could do this, then 
I thought I might succeed in impregnating the mind of 
the novel-reader with a feeling that honesty is the best 
policy ; that truth prevails while falsehood fails ; that a 
girl will be loved as she is pure and sweet and unself- 
ish ; that a man will be honored as he is true and hon- 
est and brave of heart ; that things meanly done are ugly 
and odious, and things nobly done beautiful and gra- 
cious. I do not say that lessons such as these may not 
be more grandly taught by higher flights than mine. 
Such lessons come to us from our greatest poets. But 
there are so many who will read novels and understand 
them, who either do not read the works of our great 
poets, or, reading them, miss the lesson ! And even in 
prose fiction the character whom the fervid imagination 
of the writer has lifted somewhat into the clouds will 
hardly give so plain an example to the hasty, normal 
reader as the humbler personage whom that reader un- 
consciously feels to resemble himself or herself. I do 
think that a girl would more probably dress her own 
mind after Lucy Robarts than after Flora Macdonald. 

There are many who would laugh at the idea of a 
novelist teaching either virtue or nobility — those, for 
instance, who regard the reading of novels as a sin, and 
those also who think it to be simply an idle pastime. 
They look upon the tellers of stories as among the tribe 
of those who pander to the wicked pleasures of a wick- 
ed world, I have regarded my art from so different a 
point of view that I have ever thought of myself as a 



'^Framley ParsonageP 133 

preaclier of sermons, and my pulpit as one which I 
could make both salutary and agreeable to my audience. 
1 do believe that no girl has risen from the reading of 
my pages less modest than she was before, and that 
some may have learned from them that modesty is a 
charm well worth preserving. I think that no youth 
has been taught that in falseness and flashness is to 
be found the road to manliness ; but some may perhaps 
have learned from me that it is to be found in truth 
and a high but gentle spirit. Such are the lessons I 
have striven to teach ; and I have thought it might best 
be done by representing to my readers characters like 
themselves, or to which they might liken themselves. 

"Framley Parsonage" — or, rather, my connection 
with the Cornhill — was the means of introducing me 
very quickly to that literary world from which I had 
hitherto been severed by the fact of my residence in 
Ireland. In December, 1859, while I was 6till very 
hard at work on my novel, I came over to take charge 
of the Eastern District, and settled myself at a resi- 
dence about twelve miles from London, in Hertford- 
shire, but on the borders both of Essex and Middlesex, 
which was somewhat too grandly called Waltham House. 
This I took on lease, and subsequently bought, after I 
had spent about £1000 on improvements. From hence 
I was able to make myself frequent both in Cornhill 
and Piccadilly, and to live, when the opportunity came, 
among men of my own pursuit. 

It was in January, 1860, that Mr. George Smith — to 
whose enterprise we owe not only the Cornliill Maga- 
zine but the Pall Mall Gazette — gave a sumptuous din- 
ner to his contributors. It was a memorable banquet 



134 Autobiography of Anthony Trollope, 

in many ways, but chiefly so to me because on that oc- 
casion I first met many men who afterwards became 
my most intimate associates. It can rarely happen that 
one such occasion can be the first starting-point of so 
many friendships. It was at that table, and on that 
day, that I first saw Thackeray, Charles Taylor (Sir) — 
than whom in later life I have loved no man better — 
Eobert Bell, G. H. Lewes, and John Everett Millais. 
With all these men I afterwards lived on affectionate 
terms ; but I will here speak specially of the last, be- 
cause from that time he was joined with me in so much 
of the work that I did. 

Mr. Millais was engaged to illustrate " Framley Par- 
sonage," but this was not the first work he did for the 
magazine. In the second number there is a picture of 
his, accompanying Monckton Milnes's " Unspoken Dia- 
logue." The first drawing he did for ^' Framley Par- 
sonage" did not appear till after the dinner of which 
I have spoken, and I do not think that I knew at the 
time that he was engaged on my novel. "When I did 
know it, it made me very proud. He afterwards illus- 
trated " Orley Farm," " The Small House at Allington," 
"Kachel Eay," and ^'Phineas Finn." Altogether he 
drew from my tales eighty-seven drawings, and I do 
not think that more conscientious work was ever done 
by man. AYriters of novels know well — and so ought 
readers of novels to have learned — that there are two 
modes of illustrating, either of which may be adopted 
equally by a bad and by a good artist. To which class 
Mr. Millais belongs I need not say ; but, as a good artist, 
it was open to him simply to make a pretty picture, or to 
study the work of the author from whose writing he was 



^^Framley ParsonageP 135 

bound to take his subject. I have too often found that 
the former alternative has been thought to be the better, 
as it certainly is the easier method. An artist will fre- 
quently dislike to subordinate his ideas to those of an 
author, and will sometimes be too idle to find out what 
those ideas are. But this artist was neither proud nor 
idle. In every figure that he drew it was his object to 
promote the views of the writer whose work he had 
undertaken to illustrate, and he never spared himself 
any pains in studying that work, so as to enable him to 
do so. I have carried on some of those characters from 
book to book, and have had my own early ideas im- 
pressed indelibly on my memory by the excellence of 
his delineations. Those illustrations were commenced 
fifteen years ago, and from that time up to this day my 
affection for the man of whom I am speaking has in- 
creased. To see him has always been a pleasure. His 
voice has been a sweet sound in my ears. Behind his 
back I have never heard him praised without joining 
the eulogist ; I have never heard a word spoken against 
him without opposing the censurer. These words, 
should he ever see them, will come to him from the 
grave, and will tell him of my regard — as one living 
man never tells another. 

Sir Charles Taylor, who carried me home in his 
brougham that evening, and thus conjmenced an inti- 
macy which has since been very close, was born to 
w^ealth, and was therefore not compelled by the neces- 
sities of a profession to enter the lists as an author. 
But he lived much with those who did so, and could 
have done it himself had want or ambition stirred him. 
He was our king at the Garrick Club, to which, how- 



13Q Autobiograjphy of Anthony TroUojpe. 

ever, I did not yet belong. He gave the best dinners 
of my time, and was — happily I may say is * — the best 
giver of dinners. A man rough of tongue, brusque 
in his manners, odious to those who dislike him, some- 
what inclined to tyranny, he is the prince of friends, 
honest as the sun, and as open-handed as charity itself. 
Eobert Bell has now been dead nearly ten years. As 
I look back over the interval and remember how inti- 
mate we were, it seems odd to me that we should have 
known each other for no more than six years. He was 
a man who had lived by his pen from his very youth; 
and was so far successful that I do not think that want 
ever came near him. But he never made that mark 
which his industry and talents would have seemed to 
insure. He was a man well known to literary men, 
but not known to readers. As a journalist he was use- 
ful and conscientious, but his plays and novels never 
made themselves popular. He wrote a life of Canning, 
and he brought out an annotated edition of the British 
poets ; but he achieved no great success. I have known 
no man better read in English literature. Hence his 
conversation had a peculiar charm, but he was not equal- 
ly happy w^ith his pen. He will long be remembered 
at the Literary Fund Committees, of which he was a 
stanch and most trusted supporter. I think it was he 
who first introduced me to that board. It has often 
been said that literary men are peculiarly apt to think 
that they are slighted and unappreciated. Robert Bell 
certainly never achieved the position in literature which 
he once aspired to fill, and which he was justified in 
thinking that he could earn for himself. I have fre- 
* Alas ! within a year of the writing of this he went from us. 



^''Frajnley Parsonage^ 137 

quently discussed these subjects with him, but I never 
heard from his mouth a word of complaint as to his 
own literary fate. He liked to hear the chimes go at 
midnight, and he loved to have ginger hot in his mouth. 
On such occasions no sound ever came out of a man's 
lips sweeter than his wit and gentle revelry. 

George Lewes — with his wife, whom all the world 
knows as George Eliot — has also been and still is one 
of my dearest friends. He is, I think, the acutest critic 
I know — and the severest. His severitj^, however, is a 
fault. His intention to be honest, even w^hen honesty 
may give pain, has caused him to give pain when hon- 
esty has not required it. He is essentially a doubter, 
and has encouraged himself to doubt till the faculty of 
trusting has almost left him. I am not speaking of 
the personal trust which one man feels in another, but 
of that confidence in literary excellence wdiich is, I 
think, necessary for the full enjoyment of literature. 
In one modern writer he did believe thoroughly. Noth- 
ing can be more charming than the unstinted admira- 
tion which he has accorded to everything that comes 
from the pen of the wonderful woman to whom his lot 
has been united. To her name I shall recur again when 
speaking of the novelists of the present day. 

Of " Billy Russell," as w^e always used to call him, I 
may say that I never knew but one man equal to him 
in the quickness and continuance of witty speech. That 
one man was Charles Lever — also an Irishman — whom 
I had known from an earlier date, and also with close 
intimacy. Of the two, I think that Lever was perhaps 
the more astounding producer of good things. His 
manner was, perhaps, a little the happier, and his turns 



138 Autobiography of Anthony Trollope, 

more sharp and unexpected. But ''Billy" also was 
marvellous. Whether abroad, as special correspondent, 
or at home, amid the flurry of his newspaper work, he 
was a charming companion ; his ready wit always gave 
him the last word. 

Of Thackeray I will speak again when I record his 
death. 

There were many others whom I met for the first 
time at George Smith's table. Albert Smith, for the 
first, and, indeed, for the last time, as he died soon after ; 
Higgins, wdiom all the world knew as Jacob Omnium, 
a man I greatly regarded ; Dallas, who for a time was 
literary critic to the Times, and who certainly in that 
capacity did better work than has appeared since in the 
sayje department ; George Augustus Sala, who, had he 
given himself fair play, would have risen to higher em- 
inence than that of being the best writer in his day of 
sensational leading articles; and Fitz- James Stephen, 
a man of very different calibre, who has not yet culmi- 
nated, but who, no doubt, will culminate among our 
judges. There were many others; but I cannot now 
recall their various names as identified with those ban- 
quets. 

Of "Framley Parsonage" I need only further say, 
that as I wrote it I became more closely than ever ac- 
quainted with the new shire which I had added to the 
English counties. I had it all in my mind — its roads 
and railroads, its towns and parishes, its members of 
Parliament, and the different hunts which rode over it. 
I knew all the great lords and their castles, the squires 
and their parks, the rectors and their churches. This 
was the fourth novel of which I had placed the scene 



'''Framley Parsonage^ 139 

in Barsetshire, and as I wrote it I made a map of the 
dear county. Throughout these stories there lias been 
no name given to a fictitious site which does not rep- 
resent to me a spot of which I know all the accessories, 
as though I had lived and wandered there. 



140 Autobiogrwphy of Anthony TroUojpe, 



Chapter IX. 

"CASTLE RICHMOND." — "BROWN, JONES, AND ROBIN- 
SON."— "NORTH AMERICA."— "ORLEY FARM." 

"When I had half finished " Fraraley Parsonage " I 
went back to my other story," Castle Kichmond," which 
I was writing for Messrs. Chapman & Hall, and com- 
pleted that. I tliink that this was the only occasion on 
which I have had two different novels in ray mind at 
the same time. This, however, did not create either 
difficulty or confusion. Many of us live in different 
circles ; and when we go from our friends in the town 
to our friends in the country, we do not usually fail to 
remember the little details of the one life or the other. 
The parson at Kusticum, with his wife and his wife's 
mother, and all his belongings ; and our old friend, the 
squire, with his family history ; and Farmer Mudge, 
who has been cross with us, because we rode so un- 
necessarily over his barley ; and that rascally poacher, 
once a gamekeeper, who now traps all the foxes ; and 
pretty Mary Cann, whose marriage with the wheel- 
wright we did something to expedite — though we are 
alive to them all, do not drive out of our brain the club 
gossip, or the memories of last season's dinners, or any 
incident of our London intimacies. In our lives we 
are always weaving novels, and we manage to keep the 
different tales distinct. A man does, in truth, remem- 



^^ Castle I2ichmo7idy 141 

ber that wliicli it interests him to remember ; and when 
we hear that memory has gone as age has come on, we 
should understand that the capacity for interest in the 
matter concerned has 23erished. A man will be gener- 
ally very old and feeble before he forgets how much 
money he has in the funds. There is a good deal to be 
learned by any one who wishes to write a novel well; 
but when the art lias been acquired, I do not see why 
two or three should not be well written at the same 
time. I have never found myself thinking much about 
the work that I had to do till I was doing it. I have, 
indeed, for many years almost abandoned the effort to 
think, trusting myself, with the narrowest thread of a 
plot, to w^ork the matter out when the pen is in my 
hand. But my mind is constantly employing itself on 
the work I have done. Had I left either " Framley 
Parsonage" or "Castle Richmond" half finished fifteen 
years ago, I think I could complete the tales now with 
very little trouble. I have not looked at " Castle Rich- 
mond " since it was published ; and poor as the work 
is, I remember all the incidents. 

" Castle Richmond " certainly was not a success, though 
the plot is a fairly good plot, and is much more of a 
plot than I have generally been able to find. The scene 
is laid in Ireland, during the famine ; and I am well 
aware now that English readers no longer like Irisli 
stories. I cannot understand why it should be so, as 
the Irish character is peculiarly well fitted for romance. 
But Irish subjects generally have become distasteful. 
This novel, however, is of itself a weak production. The 
characters do not excite sympathy. The heroine has 
two lovers, one of whom is a scamp and the other a 



142 Autobiograjpliy of Anthony Trollope. 

prig. As regards the scamp, the girl's mother is her 
own rival. Eivalry of the same nature has been ad- 
mirably depicted by Thackeray in his " Esmond ;" but 
there the mother's love seems to be justified by the 
girl's indifference. In " Castle Richmond " the mother 
strives to rob her daughter of the man's love. .The girl 
herself has no character ; and the mother, who is strong 
enough, is almost revolting. The dialogue is often live- 
ly, and some of the incidents are well told ; but the 
story, as a whole, was a failure. I cannot remember, 
however, that it was roughly handled by the critics 
when it came out; and I much doubt whether anything 
so hard was said of it then as that which I have said 
here. 

I was now settled at Waltham Cross, in a house in 
which I could entertain a few friends modestly, where 
we grew our cabbages and strawberries, made our own 
butter, and killed our own pigs. I occupied it for twelve 
years, and they were years to me of great prosperity. 
In 1861 I became a member of the Garrick Club, with 
which institution I have since been much identified. I 
had belonged to it about two years, when, on Thack- 
eray's death, I was invited to fill his place on the com- 
mittee, and I have been one of that august body ever 
since. Having np to that time lived very little among 
men, having known hitherto nothing of clubs, having 
even as a boy been banished from social gatherings, I 
enjoyed infinitely at first the gayety of the Garrick. It 
was a festival to me to dine there — which I did, indeed, 
but seldom ; and a great delight to play a rubber in the 
little room up-stairs of an afternoon. I am speaking 
now of the old club in King Street. This playing of 



''Castle BichmondP 143 

whist before dinner lias since that become a habit with 
me, so that unless there be something else special to do 
— unless there be hunting, or I am wanted to ride in 
the park by the young tyrant of my household — it is 
"my custom always in the afternoon." I have some- 
times felt sore with myself for this persistency, feeling 
that I was making myself a slave to an amusement 
w^hicli has not, after all, very much to recommend it. I 
have often thought that I would break myself away 
from it, and " swear olf," as Eip Yan Winkle says. But 
my swearing off has been like that of Kij) Yan Winkle. 
And now, as I think of it coolly, I do not know but that 
I have been right to cling to it. As a man grows old 
he wants amusement, more even than when he is young ; 
and then it becomes so difficult to find amusement. 
Eeading should, no doubt, be the delight of men's lei- 
sure hours. Had I to choose between books and cards, 
I should no doubt take the books. But I find that I 
can seldom read with pleasure for above an honr and a 
half at a time, or more than three hours a day. As I 
write this I am aware that hunting must soon be aban- 
doned. After sixty it is given but to few men to ride 
straight across country, and I cannot bring myself to 
adopt any other mode of riding. I think that without 
cards I should now be much at a loss. When I began 
to play at the Garrick, I did so simply because I liked 
the society of the men who played. 

I think that I became popular among those with 
whom I associated. I have long been aware of a cer- 
tain w^eakness in my own character, which I may call a 
craving for love. I have ever had a wish to be liked 
by those around me, a wish that during the first half 



144 Autobiography of Anthony Trollope. 

of my life was never gratified. In my school-days no 
small part of my misery came from the envy with which 
I regarded the popularity of popular boys. They seemed 
to me to live in a social paradise, while the desolation 
of my pandemonium was complete. And afterwards, 
when I was in London as a young man, I had but few 
friends. Among the clerks in the Post-ofiice I held my 
own fairly for the first two or three years; but even 
then I regarded myself as something of a pariah. My 
Irish life had been much better. I had had my wife 
and children, and had been sustained by a feeling of 
general respect. But even in Ireland I had, in truth, 
lived but little in society. Our means had been sufii- 
cient for our wants, but insufficient for entertaining 
others. It was not till we had settled ourselves at 
Waltham that I really began to live much with others. 
The Garrick Club was the first assemblage of men at 
which I felt myself to be popular. 

I soon became a member of other clubs. There was 
the Arts Club in Hanover Square, of which I saw the 
opening, but from which, after three or four years, I 
withdrew my name, having found that during these 
three or four years I had not once entered the build- 
ing. Then I was one of the originators of the Civil 
Service Club — not from judgment, but instigated to do 
so by others. That also I left for the same reason. 
In 1864 I received the honor of being elected by the 
committee at the Athenaeum. For this I was indebted 
to the kindness of Lord Stanhope; and I never was 
more surprised than when I was informed of the fact. 
About the same time I became a member of the Cos- 
mopolitan, a little club that meets twice a week in 



^'Browriy Jones^ and EobinsonP 145 

Charles Street, Berkeley Square, and supplies to all its 
members, and its members' friends, tea and brandy-and- 
water without charge ! The gatherings there I used 
to think very delightful. One met Jacob Omnium, 
Monckton Milnes, Tom Hughes, William Stirling, Henry 
Reeve, Arthur Russell, Tom Taylor, and such like ; and 
generally a strong political element, thoroughly well 
mixed, gave a certain spirit to the place. Lord Ripon, 
Lord Stanley, William Forster, Lord Enfield, Lord Kim- 
berley, George Bentinck, Yernon Llarcourt, Bromley 
Davenport, Knatchbull Huguessen, with many others, 
used to whisper the secrets of Parliament with free 
tongues. Afterwards I became a member of the Turf, 
which I found to be serviceable — or the reverse — only 
for the playing of whist at high points. 

In August, 1861, 1 wrote another novel for the Coriv- 
hill Magazine. It was a short story, about one volume 
in length, and was called " The Struggles of Brown, 
Jones, and Robinson." In this I attempted a style for 
which I certainly was not qualified, and to which I 
never again had recourse. It w^as meant to be funny, 
was full of slang, and was intended as a satire on the 
ways of trade. Still I think that there is some good 
fun in it, but I have heard no one else express such an 
opinion. I do not know that I ever heard any opinion 
expressed on it, except by the publisher, who kindly re- 
marked that he did not think it was equal to my usual 
work. Though he had purchased the copyright, he did 
not republish the story in book form till 1870, and 
then it passed into the world of letters sul) silentio. I 
do not know that it was ever criticised or ever read. I 
received £600 for it. From that time to this I have 

7 



146 Autobiograjphy of Anthony Trollojpe, 

been paid at about that rate for my work — £600 for the 
quantity contained in an ordinary novel volume, or 
£3000 for a long tale published in twenty parts, which 
is equal in length to five such volumes. I have occa- 
sionally, I think, received something more than this, 
never, I think, less for any tale, except when I have pub- 
lished my work anonymously/'^ Having said so much, 
I need not further specify the prices as I mention the 
books as they were written. I will, however, when I 
am completing this memoir, give a list of all the sums 
I have received for my literary labors. I think that 
" Brown, Jones, and Eobinson " was the hardest bargain 
I ever sold to a publisher. 

In 1861 the War of Secession had broken out in 
America, and from the first I interested myself much 
in the question. My mother had thirty years pre- 
viously written a very popular, but, as I had thought, 
a somewhat unjust, book about our cousins over the 
water. She had seen what was distasteful in the man- 
ners of a 3'oung people, but had hardly recognized their 
energy. I had entertained for many years an ambition 
to follow her footsteps there, and to write another 
book. I had already paid a short visit to New York 
city and state on my way home from the West Indies, 
but had not seen enough then to justify me in the ex- 
pression of any opinion. The breaking-out of the war 
did not make me think that the time was peculiarly fit 
for such inquiry as I wished to make, but it did repre- 
sent itself as an occasion on which a book might be 
popular. I consequently consulted the two great pow- 

* Since the date at which this was written I have encountered a dimi- 
nution in price. 



^'NoTth AmericaP 147 

ers with whom I was concerned. Messrs. Chapman & 
Hal], the publishers, were one power, and I had no diffi- 
culty in arranging my affairs with them. They agreed 
to publish the book on my terms, and bade me God- 
speed on my journey. The other power was the Post- 
master-general and Mr. Eowland Hill, the Secretary of 
the Post-office. I wanted leave of absence for the un- 
usual period of nine months, and fearing that I should 
not get it by the ordinary process of asking the secre- 
tary, I went direct to his lordship. ^' Is it on the plea 
of ill-health?" he asked, looking into my face, which 
was then that of a very robust man. His lordship 
knew the civil service as well as any one living, and 
must have seen much of falseness and fraudulent pre- 
tence, or he could not have asked that question. I told 
him that I was very well, but that I wanted to write a 
book. " Had I any special ground to go upon in asking 
for such indulgence?" I had, I said, done my duty 
well by the service. There was a good deal of demur- 
ring, but I got leave for nine months — and I knew that 
I had earned it. Mr. Hill attached to the minute grant- 
ing me the leave an intimation that it was to be con- 
sidered as a full equivalent for the special services ren- 
dered by me to the department. I declined, however, 
to accept the grace with such a stipulation, and it was 
withdrawn by the direction of the Postmaster-general.* 
I started for the States in August and returned in the 

* During the period of my service in the Post-office I did very much 
special work for which I never asked any remuneration — and never re- 
ceived any, though payments for special services were common in the de- 
partment at that time. But if there was to be a question of such remu- 
neration, I did not choose that my work should be valued at the price put 
upon it by Mr. Ilill. 



148 Autobiogrwphy of Anthony Trollojpe. 

following May. The war was raging during the time 
that I was there, and the country was full of soldiers. 
A part of the time I spent in Yirginia, Kentucky, and 
Missouri, among the troops along the line of attack. I 
visited all the states (excepting California) which had 
not then seceded — failing to make my way into the 
seceding states unless I was prepared to visit them w^ith 
an amount of discomfort I did not choose to endure. 
I worked very hard at the task I had assigned to my- 
self, and did, I think, see much of the manners and in- 
stitutions of the people. Nothing struck me more than 
their persistence in the ordinary pursuits of life in spite 
of the war which was around them. Neither industry 
nor amusement seemed to meet with any check. 
Schools, hospitals, and institutes were by no means neg- 
lected because new regiments were daily required. 
The truth, I take it, is that we, all of us, soon adapt our- 
selves to the circumstances around us. Though three 
parts of London were in flames I should, no doubt, ex- 
pect to have my dinner served to me, if I lived in the 
quarter which was free from fire. 

The book I wrote was very much longer than that 
on the West Indies, but w^as also written almost with- 
out a note. It contained much information, and, with 
many inaccuracies, was a true book. But it w\as not 
well done. It is tedious and confused, and will hardly, 
I think, be of future value to those who wish to make 
themselves acquainted w^ith the United States. It was 
published about the middle of the war — just at the 
time in which the hopes of those who loved the South 
were most buoyant, and the fears of those who stood by 
the North were the strongest. But it expressed an as- 



^'North AmevicaP 149 

sured confidence — which never quavered in a page or 
in a line — that the North would win. This assurance 
was based on the merits of the Northern cause, on the 
superior strength of the Northern party, and on a con- 
viction that England would never recognize the South, 
and that France would be guided in her policy by Eng- 
land. I was right in my prophecies, and right, I think, 
on the grounds on which they were made. The South- 
ern cause w^as bad. The South had provoked the quar- 
rel because its political supremacy was checked by the 
election of Mr. Lincoln to the presidency. It had to" 
fight as a little man against a big man, and fought gal- 
lantly. That gallantry — and a feeling, based on a mis- 
conception as to American character, that the Southern- 
ers are better gentlemen than their Northern brethren 
— did create great sympathy here ; but I believe that 
the country was too just to be led into political action 
by a spirit of romance, and I was warranted in that be- 
lief. There was a moment in which the Northern 
cause was in danger, and the danger lay certainly in the 
prospect of British interference. Messrs. Slidell and 
Mason — two men insignificant in themselves — had been 
sent to Europe by the Southern party, and had man- 
aged to get on board the British mail steamer called 
the Trent, at TIavanna. A most undue importance 
was attached to this mission by Mr. Lincoln's govern- 
ment, and efforts were made to stop them. A certain 
Commodore AVilkes, doing duty as policeman on the 
seas, did stop the Trent, and took the men out. They 
were carried, one to Boston and one to New York, and 
were incarcerated, amidst the triumph of the nation. 
Commodore Wilkes, who had done nothing in which a 



150 Autdbiograjyhy of Anthony Trollope. 

man could take glory, was made a hero and received a 
prize sword. England, of course, demanded her passen- 
gers back, and the States for a while refused to surren- 
der them. But Mr. Seward was at that time the Secre- 
tary of State, and Mr. Seward, with many political 
faults, was a wise man. I was at Washington at the 
time, and it was known there that the contest among the 
leading JSTortherners was very sharp on the matter. 
Mr. Sumner and Mr. Seward were, under Mr. Lincoln, 
the two chiefs of the party. It was understood that 
Mr. Sumner was opposed to the rendition of the men, 
and Mr. Seward in favor of it. Mr. Seward's counsels 
at last prevailed with the President, and England's dec- 
laration of war was prevented. I dined with Mr. 
Seward on the day of the decision, meeting Mr. Sum- 
ner at his house, and was told as I left the dining-room 
what the decision had been. During the afternoon I 
and others had received intimation through the embassy 
that we might probably have to leave Washington at 
an hour's notice. This, I think, was the severest danger 
that the Northern cause encountered during the war. 

But my book, though it was right in its views on this 
subject — and wrong in none other, as far as I know 
— was not a good book. I can recommend no one to 
read it now in order that he may be either instructed 
or amused — as I. can do that on the West Indies. It 
served its purpose at the time, and was well received 
by the public and by the critics. 

Before starting to America I had completed " Orley 
Earm," a novel which appeared in shilling numbers — 
after the manner in which " Pickwick," " Nicholas Nic- 
kleby," and many others had been published. Most of 



'^Orley FarmP 151 

those among my friends who talk to me now about my 
novels, and are competent to form an opinion on the 
subject, say that this is the best I have written. In 
this opinion I do not coincide. I think that the high- 
est merit which a novel can have consists in perfect de- 
lineation of character, rather than in plot, or humor, or 
pathos, and I shall before long mention a subsequent 
work in which I think the main character of the story 
is so well developed as to justify me in asserting its 
claim above the others. The plot of " Orley Farm " is, 
probably, the best I have ever made ; but it has the 
fault of declaring itself, and thus coming to an end too 
early in the book. When Lady Mason tells her an- 
cient lover that she did forge the will, the plot of 
"Orley Farm" has unravelled itself — and this she 
does in the middle of the tale. Independently, how- 
ever, of this the novel is good. Sir Peregrine Orme, 
his grandson, Madeline Stavely, Mr. Furnival, Mr. Chaf- 
fanbrass, and the commercial gentlemen, are all good. 
The hunting is good. The lawyer's talk is good. Mr. 
Moulder carves his turkey admirably, and Mr. Kant- 
wise sells his tables and chairs with spirit. I do not 
know that there is a dull page in the book. I am fond 
of "Orley Farm" — and am especially fond of its illus- 
trations by Millais, which are the best I have seen in 
any novel in any language. 

I now felt that I had gained my object. In 1862 I 
had achieved that which I contemplated when I went 
to London in 1834, and towards which I made my first 
attempt when I began "The Macdermots" in 1813. I 
had created for myself a position among literary men, 
and had secured to myself an income on which I might 



153 Autdbiogrwphy of Anthony Trollojpe. 

live in ease and comfort, which ease and comfort have 
been made to include many luxuries. From this time, 
for a period of twelve years, my income averaged £4500 
a year. Of this I spent about two thirds and put by one. 
I ought, perhaps, to have done better — to have spent 
one third and put by two ; but I have ever been too 
well inclined to spend freely that which has come easily. 

This, however, has been so exactly the life which my 
thoughts and aspirations had marked out — thoughts and 
aspirations which used to cause me to blush with shame 
because I was so slow in forcing myself to the work 
which they demanded — that I have felt some pride in 
having attained it. I have before said how entirely I 
fail to reach the altitude of those who think that a man 
devoted to letters should be indifferent to the pecuniary 
results for which work is generally done. An easy in- 
come has always been regarded by me as a great bless- 
ing. Not to have to think of sixpences, or very much 
of shillings ; not to be unhappy because the coals have 
been burned too quickly and the house linen wants re- 
newing; not to be debarred by the rigor of necessity 
from opening one's hands, perhaps foolishl}^, to one's 
friends — all this, to me, has been essential to the com- 
fort of life. I have enjoyed the comfort for, I may 
almost say, the last twenty years, though no man in his 
youth had less prospect of doing so, or would have been 
less likely at twenty-five to have had such luxuries fore- 
told to him by his friends. 

But though the money has been sweet, the respect, 
the friendships, and the mode of life which has been 
achieved have been much sweeter. In my boyhood, 
when I would be crawling up to school with dirty boots 



'^Orley FarmP 153 

and trousers through the muddy lanes, I was always 
telling myself that the misery of the hour was not the 
worst of it, but that the mud and solitude and poverty 
of the time would insure me mud and solitude and pov- 
erty through my life. Those lads about me would go 
into Parliament, or become rectors and deans, or squires 
of parishes, or advocates tliundering at the Bar. They 
would not live with me now — but neither should I be 
able to live with them in after-years. Nevertheless I 
have lived with them. When, at the age in which others 
go to the universities, I became a clerk in the Post-office, 
I felt that my old visions were being realized. I did 
not think it a high calling. I did not know then how 
very much good work may be done by a member of the 
civil service who will show himself capable of doing it. 
Tlie Post-office at last grew upon me and forced itself 
into my affections. I became intensely anxious that 
people should have their letters delivered to them punc- 
tually. But my hope to rise had always been built on 
the writing of novels, and at last by the writing of nov- 
els I had risen. 

I do not think that I ever toadied any one, or that I 
have acquired the character of a tuft-hunter. But here 
I do not scruple to say that I prefer the society of dis- 
tinguished people, and that even the distinction of 
wealth confers many advantages. The best education 
is to be had at a price as well as the best broadcloth. 
The son of a peer is more likely to rub his shoulders 
against well-informed men than the son of a tradesman. 
The graces come easier to the wife of him wlio has had 
great-grandfathers than they do to her whose husband 
has been less, or more, fortunate, as he may think it. 

7* 



154 Autobiography of Anthony Trollope. 

The discerning man will recognize the information and 
the graces when they are achieved without such assist- 
ance, and will honor the owners of them the more be- 
cause of the difficulties they have overcome; but the 
fact remains that the society of the well-born and of the 
wealthy will, as a rule, be worth seeking. I say this now 
because these are the rules by which I have lived, and 
these are the causes which have instigated me to work. 

I have heard the question argued — On what terms 
should a man of inferior rank live with those who are 
manifestly superior to him ? If a marquis or an earl 
honor me, who have no rank, with his intimacy, am I, 
in my intercourse with him, to remember our close ac- 
quaintance or his high rank? I have always said that 
where the difference in position is quite marked, the 
overtures to intimacy should always come from the 
higher rank ; but if the intimacy be ever fixed, then 
that rank should be held of no account. It seems to 
me that intimate friendship admits of no standing but 
that of equality. I cannot be the sovereign's friend, 
nor, probabl}^, the friend of many very much beneath 
the sovereign, because such equality is impossible. 

When I first came to Waltham Cross, in the winter 
of 1859-60, 1 had almost made up my mind that my 
hunting was over. I could not then count upon an in- 
come which would enable me to carry on an amusement 
which I should doubtless find much more expensive in 
England than in Ireland. I brought with me out of 
Ireland one mare, but she was too light for me to ride 
in the hunting-field. As, however, the money came in, 
I very quickly fell back into my old habits. First one 
horse was bought, then another, and then a third, till it 



^'Orley FarmP 155 

became established as a fixed rule that I should not have 
less than four hunters in the stable. Sometimes, when 
my boys have been at home, I have had as many as six. 
Essex was the chief scene of my sport, and gradually I 
became known there almost as well as though I had 
been an Essex squire, to the manner born. Eew have 
investigated more closely than I have done the depth 
and breadth and water-holding capacities of an Essex 
ditch. It will, I think, be accorded to me by Essex men 
generally that I have ridden hard. The cause of my 
delight in the amusement I have never been able to an- 
alyze to my own satisfaction. In the first place, even 
now, I know very little about hunting — though I know 
very much of the accessories of the field. I am too 
blind to see hounds turning, and cannot therefore tell 
whether the fox has gone this w^ay or that. Indeed, all 
the notice I take of hounds is not to ride over them. 
My eyes are so constituted that I can never see the nat- 
ure of a fence. I either follow some one, or ride at it 
with the full conviction that I may be going into a 
horse-pond or a gravel-pit. I have jumped into both 
one and the other. I am very heavy, and have never 
ridden expensive horses. I am also now old for such 
work, being so stiff that I cannot get on to my horse 
witjiout the aid of a block or a bank. But I ride still 
after the same fashion, with a boy's energy, determined 
to get ahead if it may possibly be done, hating the roads, 
despising young men who ride them, and with a feeling 
that life cannot, with all her riches, have given me any- 
thing better than when I have gone through a long run 
to the finish, keeping a place, not of glory, but of cred- 
it, among my juniors. 



156 Autobiography of Anthony Trollojpe, 



Chapter X. 

"THE SMALL HOUSE AT ALLINGTON."— " CAN YOU FOR- 
GIVE HER?"— "RACHEL RAY."— THE "EORTNIGHTLY 
REVIEW." 

During the early months of 1862 " Orley Farm " was 
still being brought out in numbers, and at the same 
time " Brown, Jones, and Robinson " was appearing in 
the Cornhill Magazine. In September, 1862, "The 
Small House at Allington" began its career in the 
same periodical. The work on IS^orth America had also 
come out in 1862. In August, 1863, the first number 
of " Can You Forgive Her ?" was published as a sepa- 
rate serial, and was continued througli 1864. In 1863 a 
short novel was produced in the ordinary volume form, 
called " Rachel Ray." In addition to these I published 
during the time two volumes of stories called " The 
Tales of All Countries." In the early spring of 1865 
" Miss Mackenzie " was issued, in the same form as 
" Rachel Ray ;" and in May of the same year " The Bel- 
ton Estate" was commenced with the commencement 
of the Fortnightly Review^ of which periodical I will 
say a few words in this chapter. 

I quite admit that I crowded my wares into the mar- 
ket too quickly, because the reading world could not 
want such a quantity of matter from the hands of one 
author in so short a space of time. I had not been 
quite so fertile as the unfortunate gentleman who dis- 



^^The Small House at AUingtonJ^ 157 

gusted the publisher in Paternoster Row — in the story 
of whose productiveness I have always thought there 
was a touch of romance — but I had probably done 
enough to make both publishers and readers think that 
I was coming too often beneath their notice. Of pub- 
lishers, however, I must speak collectively, as my sins 
were, I think, chiefly due to the encouragement which 
I received from them individually. What I wrote for 
the Cornhill Magazine I always wrote at the instiga- 
tion of Mr. Smith. My other works were published by 
Messrs. Chapman & Hall, in compliance with contracts 
made by me with them, and always made with their 
good-will. Could I have been two separate persons at 
one and the same time, of whom one might have been 
devoted to Cornhill and the other to the interests of the 
firm in Piccadilly, it might have been very well ; but, 
as I preserved my identity in both places, I myself be- 
came aware that my name was too frequent on title- 
pages. 

Critics, if they ever trouble themselves with these 
pages, will, of course, say that in what I have now said 
I have ignored altogether the one great evil of rapid 
production — namely, that of inferior work. And, of 
course, if the work was inferior because of the too e^reat 
rapidity of production, the critics would be right. Giv- 
ing to the subject the best of my critical abilities, and 
judging of my own work as nearly as possible as I would 
that of another, I believe that the work which has been 
done quickest has been done the best. I have com- 
posed better stories — that is, have created better plots — 
than those of " The Small House at Allington " and 
" Can You Forgive Her ?" and I have portrayed two or 



158 AutoUographij of Anthony TroUope. 

three better characters than are to be found in the 
pages of either of them ; but taking these books all 
through, I do not think that I have ever done better 
work. Nor would these have been improved by any 
effort in the art of story-telling, had each of these been 
the isolated labor of a couple of years. How short is 
the time devoted to the manipulation of a plot can be 
known only to those who have written plays and nov- 
els — I may say also, how very little time the brain is 
able to devote to such wearing work. There are usual- 
ly some hours of agonizing doubt, almost of despair — so, 
at least, it has been with me — or perhaps some days. 
And then, with nothing settled in my brain as to the 
linal development of events, with no capability of set- 
tling anything, but w^ith a most distinct conception of 
some character or characters, I have rushed at the work 
as a rider rushes at a fence which he does not see. 
Sometimes I have encountered what, in hunting lan- 
guage, we call a cropper. I had such a fall in two 
novels of mine, of which I have already spoken — " The 
Bertrams" and ''Castle Eichmond." I shall have to 
speak of other such troubles. But these failures have 
not arisen from over-hurried work. When my work 
has been quicker done — and it has sometimes been done 
very quickly — the rapidity has been achieved by hot 
pressure, not in the conception, but in the telling of the 
story. Instead of writing eight pages a day, I have 
written sixteen ; instead of working five days a week, 
I have worked seven. I have trebled my usual average, 
and have done so in circumstances which Lave enabled 
me to give up all my thoughts for the time to the book 
I have been writing. This has generally been done at 



^^The Small House at AllingtonP 159 

some quiet spot among the mountains — where there 
has been no society, no hunting, no whist, no ordinary 
household duties. And I am sure that the work so 
done has had in it the best truth and the highest spirit 
that I have been able to produce. At such times I 
have been able to imbue myself thoroughly with the 
characters I have had in hand. I have wandered alone 
among the rocks and woods, crying at their grief, laugh- 
ing at their absurdities, and thoroughly enjoying their 
joy. I have been impregnated with my own creations 
till it has been my only excitement to sit with the pen 
in ray hand, and drive my team before me at as quick 
a pace as I could make them travel. 

The critics will again say that all this may be very 
well as to the rough work of the author's own brain, 
but it will be very far from well in reference to the 
style in wdiich that work has been given to the public. 
After all, the vehicle which a writer uses for conveying 
his thoughts to the public should not be less important 
to him than the thoughts themselves. An author can 
liardly hope to be popular unless he can use popular 
language. That is quite true ; but then comes the 
question of achieving a popular — in other words, I may 
say, a good and lucid — style. How may an author best 
acquire a mode of writing which shall be agreeable and 
easily intelligible to the reader? He must be correct, 
because without correctness he can be neither agreeable 
nor intelligible. Headers will expect him to obey those 
rules which they, consciously or unconsciously, have 
been taught to regard as binding on language ; and un- 
less he does obey them, he will disgust. Without much 
labor, no writer will achieve such a style. He has very 



160 Autobiograjphy of Anthony Trollojpe. 

much to learn ; and, when he has learned that much, 
he has to acquire the habit of using what he has learned, 
with ease. But all this must be learned and acquired 
— not while he is writing that which shall please, but 
long before. His language must come from him as 
music comes from the rapid touch of the great per- 
formers fingers ; as words come from the mouth of the 
indignant orator; as letters fly from the fingers of the 
trained compositor ; as the sj'llables tinkled out by lit- 
tle bells form themselves to the ear of the telegraphist. 
A man who thinks much of his words as he writes them 
will generally leave behind him work that smells of oil. 
I speak here, of course, of prose ; for in poetry we 
know what care is necessary, and we form our taste ac- 
cordingly. 

Rapid writing will, no doubt, give rise to inaccuracy — 
chiefly because the ear, quick and true as may be its 
operation, will occasionally break down under pressure, 
and before a sentence be closed will forget the nature 
of the composition w^ith which it was commenced. A 
singular nominative will be disgraced by a plural verb, 
because other pluralities have intervened, and have 
tempted 'the ear into plural tendencies. Tautologies 
will occur, because the ear, in demanding fresh empha- 
sis, has forgotten that the desired force has been already 
expressed. I need not multiply these causes of error, 
which must have been stumbling-blocks indeed when 
men wrote in the long sentences of Gibbon, but which 
Macaulay, with his multiplicity of divisions, has done 
so much to enable us to avoid. A rapid writer will 
hardly avoid these errors altogether. Speaking of my- 
self, I am ready to declare that, with much training, I 



"TA^ Small House at Allingtony I6i 

have been unable to avoid them. But the writer for 
the press is rarely called upon — a writer of books should 
never be called upon — to send his manuscript hot from 
his hand to the printer. It has been my practice to 
read everything four times at least — thrice in manu- 
script and once in print. Yery much of my work I 
have read twice in print. In spite of this I know that 
inaccuracies have crept through — " not single spies, but 
in battalions." From this I gather that the supervision 
has been insufficient, not that the work itself has been 
done too fast. I am quite sure that those passages which 
have been written witli the greatest stress of labor, 
and consequently with the greatest haste, have been 
the most effective and by no means the most inaccu- 
rate. 

" The Small House at Allington " redeemed my rep- 
utation with the spirited proprietor of the Cormhill, 
which must, I should think, have been damaged by 
" Brown, Jones, and Robinson." In it appeared Lily 
Dale, one of the characters which readers of my novels 
have liked the best. In the love with which she has 
been greeted I have hardly joined with much enthu- 
siasm, feeling that she is somewhat of a French prig. 
She became first engaged to a snob, who jilted her; and 
then, though in truth she loved another man who was 
hardly good enough, she could not extricate herself 
sufficiently from the collapse of her first great misfort- 
une to be able to make up her mind to be the wife of 
one whom, though she loved him, she did not altogeth- 
er reverence. Prig as she was, she made her way into 
the hearts of many readers, both young and old ; so 
that, from that time to this, I have been continually 



163 AutoUography of Anthony Trolloj>e. 

honored witli letters, the purport of which has always 
been to beg me to marry Lily Dale to Johnny Eames. 
Had I done so, however, Lily would never have so en- 
deared herself to these people as to induce them to 
write letters to the author concerning her fate. It was 
because she could not get over her troubles that they 
loved her. Outside Lily Dale and the chief interest of 
the novel, " Tlie Small House at Allington " is, I think, 
good. The De Courcy family are alive, as is also Sir 
Eaffle Buffle, who is a hero of the civil service. Sir 
Raffle was intended to represent a type, not a man ; but 
the man for the pictm-e was soon chosen, and I w\as 
often assured that the portrait was very like. I have 
never seen the gentleman witli whom I am supposed to 
have taken the liberty. There is also an old squire 
down at Allington, whose life as a country gentleman 
with rather straitened means is, I think, well described. 
Of '' Can You Forgive Her ?" I cannot speak with too 
great affection, though I do not know that of itself it 
did very much to increase my reputation. As regards 
the story, it was formed chiefly on that of the play 
which my friend Mr. Bartley had rejected long since, 
the circumstances of which the reader may perhaps re- 
member. The play had been called " The Noble Jilt ;" 
but I was afraid of the name for a novel, lest the critics 
might throw a doubt on the nobility. There was more 
of tentative humility in that w^hich I at .last adopted. 
The character of the girl is carried through with con- 
siderable strength, but is not attractive. The humorous 
characters, which are also taken from the play — a buxom 
widow, who with her eyes open chooses the most scamp- 
ish of two selfish suitors because he is the better-look- 



"Clm You Forgive HerV 163 

ing — are well done. Mrs. Greenow, between Captain 
Bellfield and Mr. Cheeseacre, is very good fun — as far 
as the fun of novels is. But that which endears the 
book to me is the first presentation which I made in 
it of Plantagenet Palliser, with his wife, Lady Glencora. 
By no amount of description or asseveration could I 
succeed in making any reader understand how much 
these characters, with their belongings, have been to me 
in my latter life ; or how frequently I have used them 
for the expression of my political or social convictions. 
They have been as real to me as free trade was to Mr. 
Cobden, or the dominion of a party to Mr. Disraeli ; 
and as I have not been able to speak from the benches 
of the House of Commons, or to thunder from plat- 
forms, or to be efficacious as a lecturer, they have served 
me as safety-valves by which to deliver my soul. Mr. 
Plantagenet Palliser had appeared in " The Small House 
at Allington," but his birth had not been accompanied 
by many hopes. In the last pages of tliat novel he is 
made to seek a remedy for a foolish false step in life by 
marrying the grand heiress of the day — but the person- 
age of the great heiress does not appear till she comes 
on the scene as a married woman in " Can You Forgive 
Her ?" He is the nephew and heir to a duke — the Duke 
of Omnium — who was first introduced in "Doctor 
Thorne," and afterwards in " Framley Parsonage," and 
Avho is one of the belongings of whom I have spoken. 
In these personages and their friends, political and so- 
cial, I have endeavored to depict the faults and frailties 
and vices — as also the virtues, the graces, and the strength 
— of our highest classes ; and if I have not made the 
strength and virtues predominant over the faults and 



164 Autobiography of Anthony Trollope. 

vices, I have not painted the picture as I intended. 
/.PJantagenet Palliser I think to be a very noble gentle- 
man — such a one as justifies to the nation the seeming 
anomaly of an hereditary peerage and of primogeniture. 
His wife is in all respects very inferior to him ; but she, 
too, has, or has been intended to have, beneath the thin 
stratum of her follies a basis of good principle, which 
. enabled her to live down the conviction of the original 
wrong which was done to her, and taught her to en- 
deavor to do her duty in the position to which she was 
called. She had received a great wrong — having been 
made, when little more than a child, to marry a man 
for whom she cared nothing ; when, however, though 
she was little more than a child, her love had been giv- 
en elsewhere. She had very heavy troubles, but they 
did not overcome her. 

As to the heaviest of these troubles, I will say a word 
in vindication of myself and of the way I handled it in 
mj work. In the pages of " Can You Forgive Her ?" 
the girl's first love is introduced — beautiful, well-born, 
and utterly worthless. To save a girl from wasting her- 
self, and an heiress from wasting her property on such 
a scamp, was certainly the duty of the girl's friends. 
But it must ever be wrong to force a girl into a mar- 
riage with a man she does not love — and certainly the 
more so when there is another whom she does love. In 
my endeavor to teach this lesson I subjected the young 
wife to the terrible danger of overtures from the man 
to whom her heart had been given. I was walking, no 
doubt, on ticklish ground, leaving for a while a doubt 
on the question whether the lover might or might not 
succeed. Then there came to me a letter from a dis- 



^^ Can You Forgive Her f^"^ 165 

tingiiislied dignitary of our Church, a man wliom all 
men honored, treating me with severity for what I was 
doing. It had been one of the innocent joys of his 
life, said the clergyman, to have my novels read to him 
by his daughters. But now I was writing a book which 
caused him to bid them close it ! Must I also turn 
away to vicious sensation such as this ? Did I think 
that a wife contemplating adultery was a character lit 
for my pages ? I asked him, in return, whetlier from 
his pulpit, or, at any rate, from his communion-table, he 
did not denounce adultery to his audience ; and if so, 
why should it not be open to me to preach the same 
doctrine to mine ? I made known nothing which the 
purest girl could not but have learned, and ought not to 
have learned, elsewhere, and I certainly lent no attrac- 
tion to tlie sin which I indicated. His rejoinder was 
full of grace, and enabled him to avoid the annoyance 
of argumentation without abandoning his cause. He 
said tliat the subject was so much too long for letters 
that he hoped I would go and stay a week with him in 
the country, so that we might have it out. That op- 
portunity, however, has never yet arrived. 

Lady Glencora overcomes that trouble, and is brouglit, 
partly by her own sense of right and wrong, and partly 
by the genuine nobility of her husband's conduct, to 
attach herself to him after a certain fashion. The ro- 
mance of her life is gone, but there remains a rich real- 
ity of which she is fully able to taste the flavor. She 
loves her rank and becomes ambitious, first of social, 
and then of political, ascendency. He is thoroughly 
true to her, after his thorough nature, and she, after her 
less perfect nature, is imperfectly true to him. 



166 Autobiography of Anthony Ti'ollope. 

In conducting these characters from one story to an- 
other I realized the necessity, not only of consistency 
— which, had it been maintained by a hard exactitude, 
would have been untrue to nature — but also of those 
changes which time always produces. There are, per- 
haps, but few of us who, after the lapse of ten years, 
will be found to have changed our cliief characteristics. 
The selfish man will still be selfish, and the false man 
false. But our manner of showing or of hiding these 
characteristics w^ll be changed, as also our power of 
adding to or diminishing their intensity. It was my 
study that these people, as they grew in j^ears, should 
encounter the changes which come upon us all; and I 
think that I have succeeded. The Duchess of Omni- 
um, when she is playing the part of Prime Minister's 
wife, is the same woman as that Lady Glencora who 
almost longs to go ofiE with Burgo Fitzgerald, but yet 
knows that she will never do so ; and the Prime Minis- 
ter Duke, with his wounded pride and sore spirit, is he 
who, for his wife's sake, left power and place when they 
were first offered to him — but they have undergone the 
changes which a life so stirring as theirs would natu- 
rally produce. To do all this thoroughly was in my 
heart from first to last; but I do not know that the 
game has been worth the candle. To carry out my 
scheme I have had to spread my picture over so wid^ 
a canvas that I cannot expect that any lover of such 
art should trouble himself to look at it as a whole. 
Who will read "Can You Forgive Her?" "Phineas 
Finn," "Phineas Kedux," and "The Prime Minister" 
consecutively, in order that they may understand the 
characters of the Duke of Omnium, of Plantagenet 



^^Can You Forgive UerT^ I67 

Palliser, and of Lady Glencora ? Who will ever know 
that they should be so read ? But in the performance 
of the work I had much gratification, and was enabled 
from time to time to have in this way that fling at the 
political doings of the day which every man likes to 
take, if not in one fashion, then in another. I look 
upon this string of characters — carried sometimes into 
other novels than those just named — as the best work 
of my life. Taking him altogether, I think that Plan- 
tagenet Palliser stands more firmly on the ground than 
any other personage I have created. 

On Christmas day, 1863, w^e were startled by the news 
of Thackeray's death. He had then for many months 
given up the editorship of the Cornhill Magazhie — a 
position for which he was hardly fitted either by his 
habits or temperament — but was still employed in writ- 
ing for its pages. I had known him only for four 
years, but had grown into much intimacy with him and 
his family. I regard him as one of the most tender- 
hearted human beings I ever knew, who, with an exag- 
gerated contempt for the foibles of the world at large, 
would entertain an almost equally exaggerated sympa- 
thy with the joys and troubles of individuals around 
him. He had been unfortunate in early life — unfortu- 
nate in regard to money — unfortunate with an afilicted 
wife — unfortunate in having his home broken up be- 
fore his children were fit to be his companions. This 
threw him too much upon clubs, and taught him to dis- 
like general society. But it never affected his heart, or 
clouded his imagination. He could still revel in the 
pangs and joys of fictitious life, and could still feel — as 
he did to the very last — the duty of showing to bis 



168 Autobiograjphy of Anthony Trollojpe. 

readers the evil consequences of evil conduct. It was, 
perhaps, his chief fault as a writer that he could never 
abstain from that dash of satire which he felt to be de- 
manded by the weaknesses which he saw around him. 
The satirist who writes nothing but satire should write 
but little, or it will seem that his satire springs rather 
from his own caustic nature than from the sins of the 
world in which he lives. I myself regard "Esmond" 
as the greatest novel in the English language, basing 
that judgment upon the excellence of its language, on 
the clear individuality of the characters, on the truth 
of its delineations in regard to the time selected, and. 
on its great pathos. There are also in it a few scenes 
so told that even Scott has never equalled the telling. 
Let any one who doubts this read the passage in which 
Lady Castlewood induces the Duke of Hamilton to 
think that his nuptials with Beatrice will be honored 
if Colonel Esmond will give away the bride. When 
lie went from us he left behind living novelists with 
great names; but I think that they who best under- 
stood the matter felt that the greatest master of fiction 
of this age had gone. 

"Kachel Eay" underwent a fate which no other 
novel of mine has encountered. Some years before 
this a periodical called Good Words had been estab- 
lished under the editorship of my friend Dr. Norman 
Macleod, a well-known Presbyterian pastor in Glasgow. 
In 1863 he asked me to write a novel for his magazine, 
explaining to me that his principles did not teach him 
to confine his matter to religious subjects, and paying 
me the compliment of saying that he would feel him- 
self quite safe in my hands. In reply I told him I 



''Rachel RayP 169 

thouglit he was wrong in bis choice; that though he 
mia'ht wish to srive a novel to the readers of Good 
Words^ a novel from me would hardly be what he want- 
ed, and that I could not undertake .to write either with 
any specially religious tendency, or in any fashion dif- 
ferent from that which was usual to me. As worldly 
and — if any one thought me wicked — as wicked as I 
had heretofore been, I must still be, should I write for 
Good ^Yords. lie persisted in his request, and I came 
to terms as to a story for the periodical. I wrote it 
and sent it to him, and shortly afterwards received it 
back — a considerable portion having been printed — 
with an intimation that it would not do. A letter more 
full of wailing and repentance no man ever wrote. It 
was, he said, all his own fault. He should have taken 
my advice. He should have known better. But the 
story, such as it was, he could not give to his readers 
in the pages of Good Words. Would I forgive him ? 
Any pecuniary loss to which his decision might subject 
me the owner of the publication would willingly make 
good. There was some loss — or, rather, would have been 
— and that money I exacted, feeling that the fault had 
in truth been with the editor. There is the tale now 
to speak for itself. It is not brilliant, nor in any way 
very excellent; but it certainly is not very wicked. 
There is some dancing in one of the early chapters, de- 
scribed, no doubt, with that approval of the amusement 
which I have always entertained; and it was this to 
which my friend demurred. It is more true of novels 
than perhaps of anything else, that one man's food is 
another man's poison. 

" Miss Mackenzie " was written with a desire to prove 

8 



170 Autobiography of Anthony Trollojpe. 

that a novel may be produced without any love ; but 
even in this attempt it breaks down before the conclu- 
sion. In order that I might be strong in my purpose, 
I took for my heroine a very unattractive old maid, 
who was overwhelmed with money troubles ; but even 
she was in love before the end of the book, and made 
a romantic marriage with an old man. There is in this 
story an attack upon charitable bazaars, made with a 
violence which will, I think, convince any reader that 
such attempts at raising money were at. the time very 
odious to me. I beg to say that since that I have had 
no occasion to alter my opinion. "Miss Mackenzie" 
was published in the early spring of 1865. 

At the same time I was engaged with others in es- 
tablishing a periodical Eeview, in which some of us 
trusted much, and from which we expected great 
thinofs. There was, however, in truth so little com- 
bination of idea among us, that we were not justified 
in our trust or in our expectations. And yet we were 
honest in our purpose, and have, I think, done some 
good by our honesty. The matter on which we were 
all agreed was freedom of speech, combined with per- 
sonal responsibility. We would be neither conserva- 
tive nor liberal, neither religious nor free -thinking, 
neither popular nor exclusive — but we would let any 
man who had a thing to say, and knew how to say it, 
speak freely. Bat he should always speak with the 
responsibility of his name attached. In the very be- 
ginning I militated against this impossible negation of 
principles — and did so most irrationally, seeing that I 
had agreed to the negation of principles — by declaring 
that nothing should appear denying or questioning the 



"TA<3 Fortnightly BeviewP 171 

divinity of Christ. It was a most preposterous claim 
to make for such a publication as we proposed, and it 
at once drove from us one or two who had intended to 
join us. But we went on, and our company — limited 
— was formed. We subscribed, I think, £1250 each. 
I, at least, subscribed that amount, and — having agreed 
to bring out our publication every fortnight, after the 
manner of the well-known French publication — we 
called it The FortnigJitly . We secured the services of 
G. II. Lewes as our editor. We agreed to manage our 
finances by a Board, which was to meet once a fort- 
night, and of which I was the chairman. And we de- 
termined that the payments for our literature should 
be made on a liberal and strictly ready-money system. 
We carried out our principles till our money w^as all 
gone, and then we sold the copyright to Messrs. Chap- 
man & Hall for a trifle. But before we parted with 
our property we found that a fortnightly issue was not 
popular with the trade through whose hands the work 
must reach the public ; and, as our periodical had not 
become sufficiently popular itself to bear down such 
opposition, we succumbed, and brought it out once a 
month. Still, it was The Fortnightly^ and still it is 
The Fortnightly. Of all the serial publications of 
the day, it probably is the most serious, the most ear- 
nest, the least devoted to amusement, the least flippant, 
the least jocose — and yet it has the face to show itself 
month after month to the world, with so absurd a mis- 
nomer! It is, as all who know the laws of modern lit- 
erature are aware, a very serious thing to change the 
name of a periodical. By doing so you begin an alto- 
gether new enterprise. Therefore should the name be 



173 Autohiogra^hy of Anthony Trollope. 

well chosen ; whereas this was very ill chosen, a fault 
for which I alone was responsible. 

That theory of eclecticism was altogether impracti- 
cable. It was as though a gentleman should go into 
the House of Commons determined to support no 
party, but to serve his country by individual utter- 
ances. Such gentlemen have gone into the House of 
Commons, but they have not served their country 
much. Of course, the project broke down. Liberal- 
ism, free-thinking, and open inquiry will never object 
to appear in company with their opposites, because they 
have the conceit to think that they can quell those op- 
posites; but the opposites will not appear in conjunc- 
tion with liberalism, free-thinking, and open inquiry. 
As a natural consequence, our new publication became 
an organ of liberalism, free-thinking, and open inquiry. 
The result has been good ; and though there is much 
in the now established principles of The Fortnightly 
with which I do not myself agree, I may safely say 
that the publication has assured an individuality, and 
asserted for itself a position in our periodical literature, 
which is well understood and highly respected. 

As to myself and my own hopes in the matter — I was 
craving after some increase in literary honest}^, which 
I think is still desirable, but which is hardly to be at- 
tained by the means which then recommended them- 
selves to me. In one of the early numbers I wrote a 
paper advocating the signature of the authors to peri- 
odical writing, admitting that the system should not 
be extended to journalistic articles on political subjects. 
I think that I made the best of my case; but further 
consideration has caused me to doubt whether the rea- 



"TA^ Fortnightly BemewP 173 

sons whicli induced me to make an exception in favor 
of political writing do not extend themselves also to 
writing on other subjects. Much of the literary criti- 
cism which we now have is very bad indeed ; so bad as 
to be ojDen to the charge both of dishonesty and inca- 
pacity. Books are criticised witliout being read — are 
criticised by favor — and are trusted by editors to the 
criticism of the incompetent. If the names of the 
critics were demanded, editors would be more careful. 
But I fear the effect would be that we should get but 
little criticism, and that the public would put but little 
trust in that little. An ordinary reader would not 
care to have his books recommended to him by Jones; 
but the recommendation of the great unknown comes 
to him with all the weight of the Times, the Spec- 
tator, or the Saturday. 

Though I admit so much, I am not a recreant from 
the doctrine I then preached. I think that the name 
of the author does tend to honesty, and that the 
knowledge that it will be inserted adds much to the 
author's industry and care. It debars him also from 
illegitimate license and dishonest assertions. A man 
should never be ashamed to acknowledge that which 
he is not ashamed to publish. In The Fortnightly 
everything has been signed, and in this way good has, 
I think, been done. Signatures to articles in other 
periodicals have become much more common since 
The Fortnightly was commenced. 

After a time Mr. Lewes retired from the editorship, 
feeling that the work pressed too severely on his mod- 
erate strength. Our loss in him was very great, and 
there was considerable difficulty in finding a successor. 



174 Autdbiograjphy of Anthony TroUo^pe. 

I must say that the present proprietor has been fortu- 
nate in the choice he did make. Mr. John Morlej has 
done the work with admirable patience, zeal, and ca- 
pacity. Of course, he has got around him a set of con- 
tributors whose modes of thought are what we may call 
much advanced ; he, being " much advanced " himself, 
would not work with other aids. The periodical has a 
peculiar tone of its own; but it holds its own with 
ability, and though there are many who, perhaps, hate 
it, there are none who despise it. When the company 
sold it, having spent about £9000 on it, it was worth lit- 
tle or nothing. ITow I believe it to be a good property. 
My own last personal concern with it was on a mat- 
ter of fox-hunting."^ There came out in it an article 
from the pen of Mr. Freeman, the historian, condemn- 
ing the amusement which I love, on the grounds of 
cruelty and general brutality. Was it possible, asked 
Mr. Freeman, quoting from Cicero, that any educated 
man should find delight in so coarse a pursuit? Al- 
ways bearing in mind my own connection with The 
Fortnightly^ I regarded this almost as a rising of a child 
against the father. I felt, at any rate, bound to answer 
Mr. Freeman in the same columns, and I obtained Mr. 
Morley's permission to do so. I wrote my defence of 
fox-hunting, and there it is. In regard to the charge 
of cruelty, Mr. Freeman seems to assert that nothing 
unpleasant should be done to any of God's creatures 
except for a useful purpose. The protection of a 
lady's shoulders from the cold is a useful purpose ; and 
therefore a dozen fur-bearing animals may be snared in 

* I have written various articles for it since, especially two on Cicero, 
to which I devoted great labor. 



'''The Fortnightly BemewP 175 

the snow and left to starve to death in the wires, in 
order that the lady may have the tippet — though a 
tippet of wool would serve the purpose as well as a 
tippet of fur. But the congregation and healthful 
amusement of one or two hundred persons, on whose 
belialf a single fox may or may not be killed, is not a 
useful purpose. I think that Mr. Freeman has failed 
to perceive that amusement is as needful and almost as 
necessary as food and raiment. The absurdity of the 
further charge as to the general brutality of the pur- 
suit and its consequent unfitness for an educated man, 
is to be attributed to Mr. Freeman's ignorance of what 
is really done and said in the hunting-iield — perhaps to 
his misunderstanding of Cicero's words. There was a 
rejoinder to my answer, and I asked for space for 
further remarks. I could have it, the editor said, if I 
much wished it ; but he preferred that tlie subject 
should be closed. Of course I was silent. His sym- 
pathies were all with Mr. Freeman — and against the 
foxes, who, but for fox-hunting, would cease to exist in 
England. And I felt that The Fortnightly was hardly 
the place for the defence of the sport. Afterwards 
Mr. Freeman kindly suggested to me that he would be 
glad to publish my article in a little book to be put 
out by liim, condemnatory of fox-hunting generally. 
He was to have the last word and the first word, and 
that power of picking to pieces which he is known to 
use in so masterly a manner, without any reply from 
me ! This I was obliged to decline. H he would give 
me the last w^ord, as he would have the first, then, I 
told him I should be proud to join him in the book. 
This offer did not, however, meet his views. 



176 Autobiography of Anthony Trollope. 

It had been decided bj the Board of Management, 
somewhat in opposition to mj own ideas on the sub- 
ject, that The Fortnightly Review should always con- 
tain a novel. It w^as, of course, natural that I should 
write the first novel, and I w^rote ^' The Belton Estate." 
It is similar in its attributes to " Bachel Ray " and to 
" Miss Mackenzie." It is readable, and contains scenes 
which are true to life; but it has no peculiar merits, 
and will add nothing to my reputation as a novelist. 
I have not looked at it since it was published ; and 
now, turning back to it in my memory, I seem to re- 
member almost less of it than of any book that I have 
written. 



^^The ClaveringsP 177 



Chapter XL 

"THE CLAVERINGS."— THE "PALL MALL GAZETTE." — 
"NINA BALATKA." — "LINDA TRESSEL." 

"The Clayekings," which came out in 1866 and 
1867, was the last novel which I wrote for The Cornhill ; 
and it was for this that I received the highest rate of 
pay that was ever accorded to me. It was the same 
length as " Framley Parsonage," and the price w^as 
£2800. Whether much or little, it was offered by the 
proprietor of the magazine, and w^as paid in a single 
check. 

In " The Claverings " I did not follow the habit 
which had now become very common to me, of intro- 
ducing personages whose names are already known to the 
readers of my novels, and whose characters were famil- 
iar to myself. If I remember rightly, no one appears 
here who had appeared before, or who has been allowed 
to appear since, I consider the story, as a whole, to be 
good, though I am not aware that the public has ever 
corroborated that verdict. The chief character is that 
of a young woman who has married, manifestly for 
money and rank — so manifestly that she does not her- 
self pretend, even w^hile she is making the marriage, 
that she has any other reason. The man is old, disrep- 
utable, and a worn-out debauchee. Then comes the pun- 
ishment natural to the offence. When she is free, the 



178 Autobiography of Anthony Trollo^e. 

man whom she had loved, and who had loved her, is 
engaged to another woman. He vacillates and is weak 
— in which weakness is the fault of the book, as he 
plays the part of hero. But she is strong — strong in 
her purpose, strong in her desires, and strong in her 
consciousness that the punishment which comes upon 
her has been deserved. 

But the chief merit of '' Tlie Claverings " is in the 
genuine fun of some of the scenes. Humor has not 
been my forte, but I am inclined to think that the char- 
acters of Captain Boodle, Archie Clavering, and Sophie 
Gordeloup are humorous. Count Pateroff, the brother 
of Sophie, is also good, and disposes of the young hero's 
interference in a somewhat masterly manner. In " The 
Claverings," too, there is a wife whose husband is a 
brute to her, w^ho loses an only child — his heir — and 
who is rebuked by her lord because the boy dies. Her 
sorrow is, I think, pathetic. From beginning to end 
the story is w^ell told. But I doubt now whether any 
one reads " The Claverincrs." When I remember liow 
many novels I have written, I have no right to expect 
that above a few of them shall endure even to the sec- 
ond year beyond publication. This story closed my 
connection with the Cornhill Magazine^ but not with 
its owner, Mr. George Smith, who subsequently brought 
out a further novel of mine in a separate form, and who 
about this time established the Pall Mall Gazette, to 
which paper I was for some years a contributor. 

It was in 1865 that the Pall Mall Gazette was com- 
menced, the name having been taken from a fictitious 
periodical, which was the offspring of Thackeray's brain. 
It was set on foot by the unassisted energy and resources 



"Fall Mall Gazette:' 179 

of George Smith, who had succeeded, by means of his 
magazine and his publishing connection, in getting 
around him a society of literary men who sufficed, as 
far as literary ability went, to float the paper at once 
under favorable auspices. His two strongest staffs, 
probably, were "Jacob Omnium," whom I regard as 
the most forcible newspaper writer of my days, and 
Fitz-James Stephen, the most conscientious and indus- 
trious. To them the Pall Mall Gazette owed very 
much of its early success, and to the untiring energy 
and general ability of its proprietor. Among its other 
contributors were George Lewes, Hannay — who, I think, 
came up from Edinburgli for employment on its col- 
umns — Lord Houghton, Lord Strangford, Charles Meri- 
vale. Greenwood (the present editor), Greg, myself, and 
very many others — so many others that I have met at 
a Pall Mall dinner a crowd of guests who would have 
filled the House of Commons more respectably than I 
have seen it filled even on important occasions. There 
are many who now remember — and, no doubt, when 
this is published there will be left some to remember — 
the great stroke of business which was done by the rev- 
elations of a visitor to one of the casual wards in Lon- 
don. A person had to be selected who would undergo 
the misery of a night among the usual occupants of a 
casual ward in a London poor-house, and who should at 
the same time be able to record what he felt and saw. 
The choice fell upon Mr. Greenwood's brother, who 
certainly possessed the courage and the powers of en- 
durance. The description, which w\as very well given, 
was, I think, chiefly written by the brother of the Cas- 
ual himself. It had a great effect, which was increased 



180 Autoliograjphy of Anthony Trollo^e. 

by secrecy as to the person who encountered all the 
horrors of that night. I was more than once assured 
that Lord Houghton was the man. I heard it asserted 
also that I myself had been the hero. At last the un- 
known one could no longer endure that his honors 
should be hidden, and revealed the truth — in opposition, 
I fear, to promises to the contrary, and instigated by a 
conviction that, if known, he could turn his honors to 
account. In the meantime, however, that record of a 
night passed in a work-house had done more to estab- 
lish the sale of the journal than all the legal lore of 
Stephen, or the polemical power of Higgins, or the crit- 
ical acumen of Lewes. 

My work was very various. I wrote mucli on the 
subject of the American war, on which my feelings 
were at the time very keen — subscribing, if I remember 
right, my name to all that I wrote. I contributed also 
some sets of sketches, of which those concerning hunt- 
ing found favor with the public. They were repub- 
lished afterwards, and had a considerable sale ; and 
may, I think, still be recommended to those who are 
fond of hunting, as being accurate in their description 
of the different classes of people who are to be met in 
the hunting -field. There was also a set of clerical 
sketches, which was considered to be of suflScient im- 
portance to bring down upon my head the critical wrath 
of a great dean of that period. The most ill-natured 
review that was ever written upon any work of mine 
appeared in the Contemjporary Heview with reference 
to these clerical sketches. The critic told me that I did 
not understand Greek. That charge has been made not 
unfrequently by those who have felt themselves strong 



''Pall Mall Gazette:' 18i 

in that pride-producing language. It is much to read 
Greek with ease, but it is not disgraceful to be unable 
to do so. To pretend to read it without being able, 
that is disgraceful. The critic, however, had been driven 
to wrath by my saying that deans of the Church of 
England loved to revisit the glimpses of the metropoli- 
tan moon. 

I also did some critical work for The Pall Mall, as I 
also did for The Fortnightly. It was not to my taste, 
but was done in conformity with strict conscientious 
scruples. I read what I took in hand, and said what I 
believed to be true, always giving to the matter time 
altogether incommensurate with the pecuniary result to 
myself. In doing this for The Pall Mall I fell into 
great sorrow. A gentleman, w^hose wife was dear to 
me as if she were my own sister, was in some trouble 
as to his conduct in the public service. He had been 
blamed, as he thought, unjustly, and vindicated himself 
in a pamj)hlet. This he handed to me one day, asking 
me to read it, and express my opinion about it if I found 
that I had an opinion. I thought the request injudi- 
cious, and I did not read the pamphlet. He met me 
again, and, handing me a second pamphlet, pressed me 
very hard. I promised him that I would read it, and 
that if I found myself able I would express myself — 
but that I must say not what I wished to think, but 
what I did think. To this, of course, he assented. I 
then went very much out of my way to study the sub- 
ject, which was one requiring study. I found, or thought 
that I found, that the conduct of the gentleman in his 
office had been indiscreet, but that charges made against 
himself, affecting his honor, were baseless. This I said, 



182 Autobiography of Anthony Trollope. 

emphasizing much more strongly than was necessary 
the opinion which I had formed of his indiscretion, as 
will so often he the case when a man has a pen in his 
hand. It is like a club or a sledge-hammer — in using 
which, either for defence or attack, a man can hardly 
measure the strength of the blows he gives. Of course 
there was offence, and a breaking off of intercourse be- 
tween loving friends, and a sense of wrong received, 
and, I must own, too, of wrong done. It certainly was 
not open to me to whitewash with honesty him whom 
I did not find to be white ; but there was no duty in- 
cumbent on me to declare what was his color in my 
eyes — no duty even to ascertain. But I had been ruf- 
fled by the persistency of the gentleman's request, which 
should not have been made, and I punished him for 
his wrong-doing by doing a wrong myself. I must add, 
that before he died his wife succeeded in bringing us 
together. 

In the early days of the paper, the proprietor, who at 
that time acted also as chief editor, asked me to undertake 
a duty, of which the agony would, indeed, at no one mo- 
ment have been so sharp as that endured in the casual 
ward, but might have been prolonged until human nat- 
ure sank under it. He suggested to me that I should 
during an entire season attend the May meetings in Ex- 
eter Hall, and give a graphic and, if possible, amusing 
description of the proceedings. I did attend one — 
which lasted three hours — and wrote a paper which I 
think was called "A Zulu in Search of a Eeligion." 
But when the meeting was over I went to that spirited 
proprietor and begged him to impose upon me some 
task more equal to my strength. Not even on behalf 



''Pall Mall Gazetted 183 

of the Pall Hall Gazette^ which was very dear to me, 
could I go through a second May meeting, much less 
endure a season of such martyrdom. 

I have to acknowledge that I found myself unfit for 
work on a newspaper. I had not taken to it early 
enough in life to learn its ways and bear its trammels. 
I was fidgety when any word was altered in accordance 
with the judgment of the editor, who, of course, was 
responsible for what appeared. I wanted to select my 
own subjects, not to have them selected for me; to 
write when I pleased, and not when it suited others. 
As a permanent member of a staff I was no use, and 
after two or three years I dropped out of the work. 

From the commencement of my success as a writer, 
which I date from the beginning of the Cornhill Maga- 
zine, I had always felt an injustice in literary affairs 
which had never afflicted me or even sucr2:ested itself to 
me while I was unsuccessful. It seemed to me that a 
name once earned carried with it too much favor. I, 
indeed, had never reached a height to which praise was 
awarded as a matter of course ; but there were others 
who sat on higher seats, to whom the critics brought 
unmeasured incense and adulation, even when they 
wrote, as they sometimes did write, trash which from a 
beginner would not have been thought worthy of the 
slightest notice. I hope no one will think that in say- 
ing this I am actuated by jealousy of others. Though 
I never reached that height, still I had so far progressed 
that that which I wrote was received with too much 
favor. The injustice which struck me did not consist 
in that which was withheld from me, but in that which 
was given to me. I felt that aspirants coming up below 



184 Autobiography of Anthony TroUojpe. 

me might do work as good as mine, and probably much 
better work, and yet fail to have it appreciated. In or- 
der to test this, I determined to be such an aspirant my- 
self, and to begin a course of novels anonymously, in 
order that I might see whether I could obtain a second 
identity — whether, as I had made one mark by such lit- 
erary ability as I possessed, I might succeed in doing so 
again. In 1865 I began a short tale called "Nina Ba- 
latka," which in 1866 was published anonymously in 
BlachwoocTs Magazine. In 1867 this was followed by 
another of the same length, called " Linda Tressel." I 
will speak of them together, as they are of the same nat- 
ure and of nearly equal merit. Mr. Blackwood, who him- 
self read the manuscript of " Nina Balatka," expressed an 
opinion that it would not from its style be discovered 
to have been written by me ; but it was discovered by 
Mr. Hutton of the Sj>€ctato7\ who found the repeated 
use of some special phrase which had rested upon his 
ear too frequently when reading for the purpose of criti- 
cism other works of mine. He declared in his paper 
that " Nina Balatka " was by me, showing, I think, more 
sagacity than good-nature. I ought not, however, to 
complain of him, as of all the critics of my work he has 
been the most observant, and generally the most eulo- 
gistic. "Nina Balatka" never rose sufficiently high in 
reputation to make its detection a matter of any im- 
portance. Once or twice I heard the story mentioned 
by readers who did not know me to be the author, and 
always with praise; but it had no real success. The 
same may be said of " Linda Tressel." Blackwood, who, 
of course, knew the author, was willing to publish them, 
trusting that works by an experienced writer would 



''Mna BalatkaP—'^ Linda TresseV 135 

make their way, even without the writer's name, and he 
was willing to pay me for them, perhaps half what they 
w^ould have fetched with my name. But he did not 
find the speculation answer, and declined a third at- 
tempt, though a third such tale was written for him. 

Nevertheless I am sure that the two stories are good. 
Perhaps the first is somewhat the better, as being the 
less lachrymose. They w^ere both written very quickly, 
but with a considerable amount of labor ; and both were 
written immediately after visits to the towns in which 
the scenes are laid — Prague, mainly, and Nuremberg. 
Of course, I had endeavored to change not only my 
manner of language, but my manner of story -telling 
also; and in this,^ac^ Mr. Hutton, I think that I was 
successful. English life in them there was none. There 
was more of romance proper than had been usual with 
me. And I made an attempt at local coloring, at de- 
scriptions of scenes and places, which has not been usual 
with me. In all this I am confident that I was in a 
measure successful. In the loves, and fears, and hatreds, 
both of Nina and of Linda, there is much that is pathetic. 
Prague is Prague, and Nuremberg is Nuremberg. I 
know that the stories are good, but they missed the ob- 
ject wdth which they had been written. Of course there 
is not in this any evidence that I might not have suc- 
ceeded a second time as I succeeded before, had I gone 
on with the same dogged perseverance. Mr. Blackwood, 
had I still further reduced my price, would probably 
have continued the experiment. Another ten years of 
unpaid, unflagging labor might have built up a second 
reputation. But this, at any rate, did seem clear to me, 
that with all the increased advantages which practice in 



186 Autobiograjphy of Anthony Trollojpe. 

my art must have given me, I could not at once induce 
English readers to read what I gave to them, unless I 
gave it with mj^ name. 

I do not wish to have it supposed from this that I 
quarrel with public judgment in affairs of literature. It 
is a matter of course that in all things the public should 
trust to established reputation. It is as natural that a 
novel-reader wanting novels should send to a library for 
those by George Eliot or Wilkie Collins, as that a lady 
when she wants a pie for a picnic should go to Fort- 
num & Mason. Fortnum & Mason can only make 
themselves Fortnum & Mason by dint of time and good 
pies combined. If Titian were to send us a portrait 
from the other world, as certain dead poets send their 
poetry, by means of a medium, it would be some time 
before the art critic of the Times would discover its 
value. We may sneer at the want of judgment thus 
displayed, but such slowness of judgment is human, and 
has always existed. I say all this here because my 
thoughts on the matter have forced upon me the con- 
viction that very much consideration is due to the bitter 
feelings of disappointed authors. 

"\Ye who have succeeded are so apt to tell new as- 
pirants not to aspire, because the thing to be done may 
probably be beyond their reach. " My dear young lady, 
had 3^ou not better stay at home and darn your stock- 
ings V " As, sir, you have asked for my candid opinion, 
I can only counsel you to try some other work of life 
which may be better suited to your abilities." What 
old-established successful author has not said such words 
as these to humble aspirants for critical advice, till they 
have become almost formulas ? No doubt there is cru- 



^'Nina Bdlatkar — ^'Linda TresselP 187 

elty in such answers ; but the man who makes them has 
considered the matter within himself, and has resolved 
that such cruelty is the best mercj^ No doubt the 
chances against literary aspirants are very great. It is 
so easy to aspire — and to begin ! A man cannot make 
a watch or a shoe without a variety of tools and many 
materials. He must also have learned much. But any 
young lady can write a book who has a sufficiency of 
pens and paper. It can be done anywhere; in any 
clothes — which is a great thing ; at any hours — to which 
happy accident in literature I owe my success. And 
the success, when achieved, is so pleasant ! The as- 
pirants, of course, are very many ; and the experienced 
counsellor, when asked for his candid judgment as to 
this or that effort, knows that among every hundred ef- 
forts there will be ninety-nine failures. Then the an- 
swer is so ready : " My dear young lady, do darn your 
stockings ; it will be for the best." Or perhaps, less 
tenderly, to the male aspirant : " You must earn some 
money, you say. Don't you think that a stool in a 
counting-house might be better?" The advice will 
probably be good advice — probably, no doubt, as may 
be proved by the terrible majority of failures. But 
who is to be sure that he is not expelling an angel from 
the heaven to which, if less roughly treated, he would 
soar — that he is not dooming some Milton to be mute 
and inglorious, who, but for such cruel ill -judgment, 
would become vocal to all ages ? 

The answer to all this seems to be ready enough. 
The judgment, whether cruel or tender, should not be 
ill-judgment. He who consents to sit as judge should 
have capacity for judging. But in this matter no ac- 



188 Autobiography of Anthony Trollope, 

curacy of judgment is possible. It may be that the 
matter subjected to the critic is so bad or so good as to 
make an assured answer possible. " You, at any rate, 
cannot make this your vocation ;" or " Yon, at any rate, 
can succeed, if you will try." But cases as to which such 
certainty can be expressed are rare. The critic who 
w^rote the article on the early verses of Lord Byron, 
which produced the "English Bards and Scotch Ke- 
viewers," w^as justified in his criticism by the merits of 
the " Hours of Idleness." The lines had, nevertheless, 
been written by that Lord Byron who became our Byron. 
In a little satire called " The Biliad," which, I think, 
nobody knows, are the following well-expressed lines : 

" When Payne Knight's 'Taste' was issued to the town, 
A few Greek verses in the text set down 
Were torn to pieces, mangled into hash, 
Doomed to the flames as execrable trash — 
In short, were butchered rather than dissected, 
And several false quantities detected — 
Till, when the smoke had vanished from the cinders, 
'Twas just discovered that — the lines were Pindar'^ s T^ 

Tliere can be no assurance against cases such as these ; 
and yet we are so free with our advice, always bidding 
the young aspirant to desist. 

There is, perhaps, no career of life so charming as that 
of a successful man of letters. Those little unthought- 
of advantages w^hich I just now named are in themselves 
attractive. If you like the town, live in the town, and 
do your work there ; if you like the country, choose the 
country. It may be done on the top of a mountain or 
in the bottom of a pit. It is compatible with the roll- 
ing of the sea and the motion of a railway. The clergy- 
man, the lawyer, the doctor, the Member of Parliament, 



'^JS'ina BalatlcaP — ''Lmda TresselP 189 

the clerk in a public office, the tradesman, and even his 
assistant in the shop, must dress in accordance with cer- 
tain fixed laws ; but the author need sacrifice to no grace, 
hardly even to propriety. He is subject to no bonds 
such as those which bind other men. Who else is free 
from all shackle as to hours? The judge must sit at 
ten, and the attorney-general, who is making his £20,000 
a year, must be there with his bag. The prime-minister 
must be in his place on that weary front bench shortly 
after prayers, and must sit there, either asleep or awake, 

even though or should be addressing the House. 

During all that Sunday which he maintains should be a 
day of rest, the active clergyman toils like a galley-slave. 
The actor, w^hen eight o'clock comes, is bound to his foot- 
lights. The civil-service clerk must sit there from ten 
till four — unless his office be fashionable, when twelve to 
six is just as heavy on him. The author may do his 
w^ork at five in the morning, when he is fresh from his 
bed, or at three in the morning, before he goes there. 
And the author wants no capital, and encounters no risks. 
When once he is afloat, the publisher finds all that — and 
indeed, unless he be rash, finds it whether he be afloat or 
not. But it is in the consideration which he enjoys that 
the successful author finds his richest reward. He is, if 
not of equal rank, yet of equal standing with the high- 
est ; and if he be open to the amenities of society, may 
choose his own circles. He, without money, can enter 
doors which are closed against almost all but him and 
the wealthy. I have often heard it said that in this 
country the man of letters is not recognized. I believe 
the meaning of this to be that men of letters are not 
often invited to be knights and baronets. I do not think 



190 Autobiograj^hy of Anthony Trollojpe. 

that they wish it — and if they had it they would, as a 
body, lose much more than they would gain. I do not 
at all desire to have letters put after my name, or to be 
called Sir Anthony, but if my friends Tom Hughes and 
Charles Reade became Sir Thomas and Sir Charles, I do 
not know howl might feel — or how my wife might feel — 
if we were left unbedecked. As it is, the man of letters 
who would be selected for titular honor, if such bestowal 
of honors were customary, receives from the general re- 
spect of those around him a much more pleasant recog- 
nition of his worth. 

If this be so — if it be true that the career of the suc- 
cessful literary man be thus pleasant — it is not wonder- 
ful that many should attempt to win the prize. But how 
is a man to know whether or not he has within him the 
qualities necessary for such a career ? He makes an at- 
tempt, and fails ; repeats his attempt, and fails again ! 
So many have succeeded at last who have failed more 
than once or twice ! Who will tell him the truth as to 
himself ? Who has power to find out that truth ? The 
hard man sends him off without a scruple to that office- 
stool ; the soft man assures him that there is much merit 
in his manuscript. 

Oh, my young aspirant — if ever such a one should 
read these pages — be sure that no one can tell you ! To 
do so it would be necessary not only to know what there 
is now within you, but also to foresee what time will 
produce there. This, however, I think may be said to 
you, without any doubt as to the wisdom of the counsel 
given, that if it be necessary for you to live by your 
work, do not begin by trusting to literature. Take the 
stool in the office, as recommended to you by the hard 



^^JSina BalatkaP — "-Linda Tresseiy 191 

man ; and then, in such leisure hours as may belong to 
you, let the praise which has come from the lips of that 
soft man induce you to persevere in your literary at- 
tempts. Should you fail, then your failure will not be 
fatal ; and what better could you have done with the 
leisure hours had you not so failed ? Such double toil, 
you will say, is severe. Yes ; but if yon want this thing, 
you must submit to severe toil. 

Some time before this I had become one of the com- 
mittee appointed for the distribution of the moneys of 
the Eoyal Literary Fund, and in that capacity I heard 
and saw much of the sufferings of authors. I may in a 
future chapter speak further of this institution, which I 
regard with great affection, and in reference to which I 
should be glad to record certain convictions of my own ; 
but I allude to it now, because the experience I have 
acquired in being active in its cause forbids me to advise 
any young man or woman to enter boldly on a literary 
career in search of bread. I know how utterly I should 
have failed myself had my bread not been earned else- 
where while I was making my efforts. During ten years 
of work, which I commenced with some aid, from the 
fact that others of my family were in the same profes- 
sion, I did not earn enougli to buy me the pens, ink, and 
paper which I was using; and then when, with all my 
experience in my art, I began again as from a new spring- 
ing-point, I should have failed again unless again I could 
have given j^ears to the task. Of course, there have 
been many wlio have done better than I — many whose 
powers have been infinitely greater. But then, too, I 
have seen the failure of many who were greater. 

The career, when success lias been achieved, is cer- 



192 Autobiography of Antliony Trollojpe. 

tainly very pleasant ; but the agonies which are endured 
in the search for that success are often terrible. And 
the author's poverty is, I think, harder to be borne than 
any other poverty. The man, whether rightly or wrong- 
ly, feels that the world is using him with extreme in- 
justice. The more absolutely he fails, the higher, it is 
probable, he Avill reckon his own merits ; and the keener 
will be the sense of injury in that he, whose work is of 
so high a nature, cannot get bread, while they whose 
tasks are mean are lapped in luxury. " I, with my well- 
filled mind, with my clear intellect, with all my gifts, 
cannot earn a poor crown a day, while that fool, who 
simpers in a little room behind a shop, makes his thou- 
sands every year." The very charity, to which he too 
often is driven, is bitterer to him than to others. While 
he takes it he almost spurns the hand that gives it to 
him, and every fibre of his heart within him is bleeding 
w^ith a sense of injury. 

The career, when successful, is pleasant enough, cer- 
tainly ; but when unsuccessful, it is of all careers the 
most agonizing. 



Oil Novels^ and the Art of Writing Them. 193 



Chapter XIL 

ON NOVELS, AND THE ART OF WRITING TPIEM. 

It is nearly twenty years since I proposed to myself 
to write a history of English prose fiction. I shall never 
do it now, but the subject is so good a one that I recom- 
mend it heaj-tily to some man of letters, who shall at the 
same time be indefatigable and light-handed. I acknowl- 
edge that I broke down in the task, because I could not 
endure the labor in addition to the other labors of my 
life. Though the book might be charming, the work 
w'as very much the reverse. It came to have a terrible 
aspect to me, as did that proposition that I should sit 
out all the May meetings of a season. According to my 
plan of such a history, it would be necessary to read an 
infinity of novels, and not only to read them, but so to 
read them as to point out the excellences of those wdiicli 
are most excellent, and to explain the defects of tliose 
which, though defective, had still reached sufficient 
reputation to make them worthy of notice. I did read 
many after this fashion — and here and there I have the 
criticisms which I wrote. In regard to many, they were 
written on some blank page within the book. I have 
not, however, even a list of the books so criticised. I 
think that the "Arcadia" w-as the first, and "Ivanhoe" 
the last. My plan, as I settled it at last, had been to be- 
gin with " Robinson Crusoe," which is the earliest really 

9 



194 Autobiograjphy of Anthony Trollojpe. 

popular novel which we have in our language, and to 
continue the review so as to include the works of all 
English novelists of reputation, except those who might 
still be living when my task should be completed. But 
when Dickens and Bulwer died mj spirit flagged, and 
that which I had already found to be very difficult had 
become almost impossible to me at my then period of 
life. 

I began my own studies on the subject with works 
much earlier than '' Robinson Crusoe," and made my 
way through a variety of novels which were necessary 
for my purpose, but which in the reading gave me no 
pleasure whatever. I never worked harder than at the 
" Arcadia," or read more detestable trash than the stories 
written by Mrs. Aphra Behn ; but these two were neces- 
sary to my purpose, which w^as not only to give an esti- 
mate of the novels as I found them, but to describe how 
it had come to pass that the English novels of the pres- 
ent day have become what they are, to point out the 
effects w^iich they have produced, and to inquire whether 
their great popularity has, on the whole, done good or 
evil to the people who read them. I still think that the 
book is one wxll worthy to be written. 

I intended to write that book to vindicate my own 
profession as a novelist, and also to vindicate that public 
taste in literature which has created and nourished the 
profession w^iich I follow. And I was stirred up to 
make such an attempt by a conviction that there still 
exists among us Englishmen a prejudice in respect to 
novels, which might, perhaps, be lessened by such a work. 
This prejudice is not against the reading of novels, as 
is proved by their general acceptance among us. But it 



On Novels^ and the Art of Writing Them. 195 

exists strongly in reference to the appreciation in which 
they are professed to be held ; and it robs them of much 
of that high character which they may claim to have 
earned by their grace, their honesty, and good teaching. 

No man can work long at any trade without being 
brought to consider much whether that which he is 
daily doing tends to evil or to good. I have written 
many novels, and have known many writers of novels, 
and I can assert that such thoughts have been strong 
with 'them and with myself. But in acknowledging 
that these writers have received from the public a full 
measure of credit for such genius, ingenuity, or perse- 
verance as each may have displayed, I feel that there is 
still wanting to them a just appreciation of the excel- 
lence of their calling, and a general understanding of 
the high nature of the work which they perform. 

By the common consent of all mankind who have 
read, poetry takes the highest place in literature. That 
nobility of expression, and all but divine grace of words, 
which she is bound to attain before she can make her 
footing good, is not compatible with prose. Indeed, it 
is that which turns prose into poetry. When tliat has 
been in truth achieved, the reader knows that the writer 
has soared above the earth, and can teach his lessons 
somewhat as a god might teach. He who sits down to 
write his tale in prose makes no such attempt, nor does 
he dream that the poet's honor is within his reach ; but 
his teaching is of the same nature, and his lessons all 
tend to the same end. By either, false sentiments may 
be fostered ; false notions of humanity may be engen- 
dered ; false honor, false love, false worship may be 
created ; by either, vice instead of virtue may be taugh^ 



196 Autobiography of Anthony Trollope. 

But by each, equally, may true honor, true love, true 
worship, and true humanity be inculcated ; and that 
-will be the greatest teacher who will spread such truth 
the widest. But at present, much as novels, as novels, 
are bought and read, there exists still an idea, a feeling 
which is very prevalent, that novels at their best are 
but innocent. Young men and women, and old men 
and women, too, read more of them than of poetry, be- 
cause such reading is easier than the reading of poetry ; 
but they read them, as men eat pastry after dinner, not 
without some inward conviction that the taste is vain, 
if not vicious. I take upon myself to say that it is 
neither vicious nor vain. 

But all writers of fiction who have desired to think 
well of their own work, will probably have had doubts 
on their minds before they have arrived at this conclu- 
sion. Thinking much of my own daily labor and of 
its nature, I felt myself at first to be much afflicted, and 
then to be deeply grieved, by the opinion expressed by 
wise and thinking men as to the work done by novel- 
ists. But when, by degrees, I dared to examine and 
sift the sayings of such men, I found them to be some- 
times silly and often arrogant. I began to inquire what 
had been the nature of English novels since they first 
became common in our own language, and to be desir-^ 
ous of ascertaining whether they had done harm or good. 
I could well remember that, in my own young days, 
they had not taken that undisputed possession of draw- 
ing-rooms which they now hold. Fifty years ago, when 
George lY. was king, they were not, indeed, treated as 
Lydia had been forced to treat them in the preceding 
''^ign, when, on the approach of elders, " Peregrine 



On JSfovels, and the Art of Writing Them. 197 

Pickle " was hidden beneath the bolster, and " Lord 
Ainsworth " put away under the sofa. But the families 
in which an unrestricted permission was given for the 
reading of novels were very few, and from many they 
were altogether banished. The higli poetic genius and 
correct morality of Walter Scott had not altogether 
succeeded in making men and women understand that 
lessons which were good in poetry could not be bad in 
prose. I remember that in those days an embargo was 
laid upon novel-reading as a pursuit, which was to the 
novelist a much heavier tax than that want of full ap- 
preciation of which I now complain. 

There is, we all know, no such embargo now. May 
w^e not say that people of an age to read have got too 
much power into their own hands to endure any very 
complete embargo? ^N'ovels are read right and left, 
above stairs and below, in town houses and in country 
parsonages, by young countesses and by farmer's daugh- 
ters, by old lawyers and by young students. It has not 
only come to pass that a special provision of them has 
to be made for the godly, but that the provision so 
made must now include books which a few years since 
the godly would have thought to be profane. It was 
this necessity which, a few years since, induced the 
editor of Good Words to apply to me for a novel — 
which, indeed, when supplied was rejected, but which 
now, probably, owing to further change in the same 
direction, would have been accepted. 

If such be the case — if the extension of novel-read- 
ing be so wide as I have described it — then very much 
good or harm must be done by novels. The amuse- 
ment of the time can hardly be the only result of any 



198 Autobiograjphy of Anthony Trollojpe. 

book tliat is read, and certainly not so with a novel, 
which appeals especially to the imagination, and solicits 
the sympathy of the young. A vast proportion of the 
teaching of the day — greater, probably, than many of 
us have acknowledged to ourselves — comes from these 
books, which are in the hands of all readers. It is 
from them that girls learn what is expected from them, 
and what they are to expect when lovers come; and 
also from them that young men unconsciously learn 
what are, or should be, or may be, the charms of love — 
though I fancy that few young men will think so little 
of their natural instincts and powers as to believe that 
I am right in saying so. Many other lessons also are 
tauffht. In these times — when the desire to be honest 
is pressed so hard, is so violently assaulted by the am- 
bition to be great ; in which riches are the easiest road 
to greatness; when the temptations to which men are 
subjected dulls their eyes to the perfected iniquities of 
others; when it is so hard for a man to decide vigor- 
ously that the pitch, which so many are handling, will 
deiile him if it be touched — men's conduct will be act- 
uated much by that which is from day to day depicted 
to them as leading to glorious or inglorious results. 
The woman who is described as having obtained all 
that the world holds to be precious, by lavishing her 
charms and her caresses unworthily and heartlessly, will 
induce other women to do the same with theirs; as will 
she who is made interesting by exhibitions of bold pas- 
sion teach others to be spuriously passionate. The young 
man who, in a novel, becomes a hero, perhaps a Member 
of Parliament, and almost a prime-minister, by trickery, 
falsehood, and flash cleverness, will have many followers, 



On JVovels, and the Art of Writing Them. 199 

whose attempts to rise in the world ought to lie heavily 
on the conscience of the novelists who create fictitious 
Cagliostros. There are Jack Sheppards other than those 
who break into houses and out of prisons — Macheaths, 
who deserve the gallows more than Gay's hero. 

Thinking of all this, as a novelist surely must do — as 
I certainly have done through my whole career — it be- 
comes to him a matter of deep conscience how he shall 
handle those characters by whose words and doings he 
hopes to interest his readers. It will very frequently 
be the case that he will be tempted to sacrifice something 
for effect, to say a word or two here, or to draw a pict- 
ure there, for which he feels that he has the power, and 
which, when spoken or drawn, would be alluring. The 
regions of absolute vice are foul and odious. The savor 
of them, till custom has hardened the palate and the 
nose, is disgusting. In these he will hardly tread. But 
there are outskirts on these regions, on which sweet- 
smelling flowers seem to grow, and grass to be green. 
It is in these border-lands that the danger lies. The 
novelist may not be dull. If he commit that fault, lie 
can do neither harm nor good. He must please, and the 
flowers and the grass in these neutral territories some- 
times seem to give him so easy an opportunity of pleas- 
ing. 

The writer of stories must please, or he will be noth- 
ino". And he must teach, whether he wish to teach or 
no. How shall lie teach lessons of virtue and at the 
same time make himself a delight to his readers? That 
sermons are not in themselves often thought to be 
agreeable we all know. Nor are disquisitions on moral 
philosophy supposed to be pleasant reading for our idle 



200 Autobiography of Anthony Trollope. 

hours. But the novelist, if he have a conscience, must 
preach his sermons with the same purpose as the clergy- 
man, and must have his own system of ethics. If he 
can do this efficiently, if he can make virtue alluring 
and vice ugly, while he charms his readers instead of 
wearying them, then I think Mr. Carlyle need not call 
him distressed, nor talk of that long ear of fiction, nor 
question whether he be or not the most foolish of exist- 
ing mortals. 

I think that many have done so ; so many that we 
English novelists may boast, as a class, that such has 
been the general result of our own work. Looking 
back to the past generation, I may say with certainty 
that such was the operation of the novels of Miss Edge- 
worth, Miss Austen, and Walter Scott. Coming down 
to my own times, I find such to have been the teaching 
of Thackeray, of Dickens, and of George Eliot. Speak- 
ing, as I shall speak to any who may read these words, 
with that absence of self -personality which the dead 
may claim, I will boast that such has been the result of 
my own writing. Can any one, by search though the 
works of the six great English novelists I have named, 
find a scene, a passage, or a word that would teach a 
girl to be immodest, or a man to be dishonest? When 
men, in their pages, have been described as dishonest 
and women as immodest, have they not ever been pun- 
ished ? It is not for the novelist to say, baldly and 
simply: "Because yow lied here or were heartless 
there, because you, Lydia Bennet, forgot the les- 
sons of your honest home, or you. Earl Leicester, were 
false through your ambition, or you, Beatrix, loved too 
well the glitter of the world, therefore you shall be 



On Novels^ and the Art of 'Writing Them. 201 

scourged with scourges either in this world or in the 
next;" but it is for hiin to show, as he carries on his 
tale, that his Lydia, or his Leicester, or his Beatrix will 
be dishonored in the estimation of all readers by his or 
her vices. Let a woman be drawn clever, beautiful, at- 
tractive — so as to make men love her, and women al- 
most envy her — and let her be made also heartless, 
nn feminine, and ambitious of evil grandeur, as was 
Beatrix, what a danger is there not in such a character ! 
To the novelist who shall handle it, what peril of doing 
harm ! But if at last it liave been so handled that 
every girl who reads of Beatrix shall say : " Oh ! not 
like that — let me not be like tliat !" and that every 
youth shall say : " Let me not have such a one as that 
to press my bosom, anything rather than that !" — then 
will not the novelist have preached his sermon as per- 
haps no clergyman can preach it ? 

Yery much of a novelist's work must appertain to 
the intercourse between young men and young women. 
It is admitted that a novel can hardly be made interest- 
ing or successful without love. Some few might be 
named, but even in those the attempt breaks down, and 
the softness of love is found to be necessary to complete 
the story. " Pickwick " has been named as an exception 
to the rule, but even in " Pickwick " there are three or 
four sets of lovers, whose little amatory longings give a 
softness to the work. I tried it once with " Miss Mac- 
kenzie," but 1 had to make her fall in love at last. In 
this frequent allusion to the passion which most stirs the 
imagination of the young, there must be danger. Of 
that the writer of fiction is probably well aware. Then 
the question has to be asked, whether the danger may 

9^ 



203 Aiitdbiogra-phy of Anthony Trollojpe. 

not be so averted that good may be the result — and to 
be answered. 

In one respect the necessity of dealing with love is 
advantageous — advantageous from the very circum- 
stance which has made love necessary to all novelists. 
It is necessary, because the passion is one which inter- 
ests or has interested all. Every one feels it, has felt it, 
or expects to feel it — or else rejects it with an eager- 
ness which still perpetuates the interest. If the novel- 
ist, therefore, can so handle the subject as to do good 
by his handling, as to teach wholesome lessons in regard 
to love, the good which he does will be very wide. If 
I can teacli politicians that they can do their business 
better by truth than by falsehood, I do a great service ; 
but it is done to a limited number of persons. But if 
I can make young men and women believe that trutli 
in love will make them happy, then, if my writings be 
popular, I shall have a very large class of pupils. I^o 
doubt the cause for that fear which did exist as to nov- 
els arose from an idea that the matter of love would be 
treated in an inflammatory and generally unwholesome 
manner. "Madam," says Sir Anthony, in the play, " a 
circulating library in a town is an evergreen tree of 
diabolical knowledge. It blossoms through the year; 
and depend on it, Mrs. Malaprop, that they who are 
so fond of handling the leaves will long for the fruit 
at last." Sir Anthony was, no doubt, right. Eut he 
takes it for granted that the longing for the fruit is an 
evil. The novelist who writes of love thinks differently, 
and thinks that the honest love of an honest man is a 
treasure which a good girl may fairly hope to win ; 
and that, if she can be taught to wish only for that. 



Oil Novels^ and the Art of Writing Them. 203 

she will have been taught to entertain only wholesome 
wishes. 

I can easily believe that a girl should be taught to 
wish to love by reading how Laura Bell loved Penden- 
nis. Pendennis was not, in trutli, a very worthy man, 
nor did he make a very good husband ; but the girl's 
love was so beautiful, and the wife's loVe, when she be- 
came a wife, so womanlike, and at the same time so 
sweet, so unselfish, so wifely, so worshipful — in the 
sense in which wives are told that they ought to worship 
their husbands — that I cannot believe that any girl can be 
injured, or even not benefited, by reading of Laura's love. 

There once used to be many who thought, and prob- 
ably there still are some, even here in England, who 
think, that a girl should hear nothing of love till the 
time come in which she is to be married. That, no doubt, 
was the opinion of Sir Anthony Absolute and of Mrs. 
Malaprop. But I am hardly disposed to believe that 
the old system was more favorable than ours to the 
purity of manners. Lydia Languish, though she was 
constrained by fear of her aunt to hide the book, yet 
had " Peregrine Pickle " in her collection. "While 
human nature talks of love so forcibly it can hardly 
serve our turn to be silent on the subject. " Naturam 
expellas furcd^ tarnen usque recurretP There are 
countries in which it has been in accordance with the 
manners of the upper classes that the girl should be 
brought to marry the man almost out of the nursery — 
or rather, perhaps, out of the convent — without having 
enjoyed that freedom of thought which the reading of- 
novels and of poetry will certainly produce ; but I do 
not know that the marriages so made have been thought 
to be happier than our own. 



204 Autobiography of Anthony Trollops. 

Among English novels of the present day, and among 
English novelists, a great division is made. There are 
sensational novels and anti-sensational, sensational novel- 
ists and anti-sensational, sensational readers and anti- 
sensational. The novelists who are considered to be 
anti- sensational are generally called realistic. I am 
realistic. My friend Wilkie Collins is generally sup- 
posed to be sensational. The readers who prefer the 
one are supposed to take delight in the elucidation of 
character. Those who hold by the other are charmed 
by the continuation and gradual development of a plot. 
All this is, I think, a mistake — which mistake arises 
from the inability of the imperfect artist to be at the 
same time realistic and sensational. A good novel 
should be both, and both in the highest degree. If a 
novel fail in either, there is a failure in art. Let those 
readers who believe that they do not like sensational 
scenes in novels think of some of those passages from 
our great novelists which have charmed them most : 
of Rebecca in the castle with Ivanhoe; of Burley in 
the cave with Morton ; of the mad lady tearing the veil 
of the expectant bride, in " Jane Eyre ;" of Lad}^ Castle- 
wood as, in her indignation, she explains to the Duke of 
Hamilton Henry Esmond's right to be present at the 
marriage of his Grace with Beatrix — may I add, of 
Lady Mason, as she makes her confession at the feet of 
Sir Peregrine Orme? Will any one say that the au- 
thors of these passages have sinned in being over-sensa- 
tional ? Xo doubt, a string of horrible incidents, bound 
together without truth in detail, and told as affecting 
personages without character — wooden blocks, who can- 
not make themselves known to the reader as men and 



Oil Novels, and the Art of Writing Them. 205 

women — does not instruct or amuse, or even fill the 
mind, with awe. Horrors heaped upon horrors, and 
which are horrors only in themselves, and not as touch- 
ing any recognized and known person, are not tragic, 
and soon cease even to horrify. And such would-be 
tragic elements of a story may be increased without end 
and without difficulty. I may tell you of a woman mur- 
dered^ — murdered in the same street with you, in the next 
house ; that she was a wife murdered by her husband — • 
a bride not yet a week a wife. I may add to it for- 
ever. I may say that the murderer roasted her alive. 
There is no end to it. I may declare that a former 
wife was treated with equal barbarity ; and may assert 
that, as the murderer w^as led away to execution, he de- 
clared his only sorrow, his only regret, to be, that he 
could not live to treat a third wife after the same 
fashion. There is nothing so easy as the creation and 
the cumulation of fearful incidents after this fashion. 
If such creation and cumulation be the beginning and 
the end of the novelist's work — and novels have been 
written which seem to be without other attractions — 
nothing can be more dull or more useless. But not on 
that account are we averse to tragedy in prose fiction. 
As in poetry, so in prose, he who can deal adequately 
with tragic elements is a greater artist and reaches a 
higher aim than the writer whose efforts never carry 
him above the mild walks of everyday life. The " Bride 
of Lammermoor" is a tragedy throughout, in spite of 
its comic elements. The life of Lady Castlewood, of 
whom I have spoken, is a tragedy. Eochester's 
wretched thraldom to his mad wife, in " Jane Eyre," is 
a tragedy. But these stories charm us, not simply be- 



206 Autobiograiphy of Anthony ^Trollojpe. 

cause tliej are tragic, but because we feel that men and 
women with flesh and blood, creatures with whom we 
can sympathize, are struggling amid their woes. It all 
lies in that. Xo novel is anything, for the purposes 
either of comedy or tragedy, unless the reader can sym- 
pathize with the characters whose names he finds upon 
the pages. Let an author so tell his tale as to touch his 
reader's heart and draw his tears, and he has, so far, 
done his work welL Truth let there be — truth of de- 
scription, truth of character, human truth as to men and 
women. If there be such truth, I do not know that a 
novel can be too sensational. 

I did intend, wlien I meditated that history of Eng- 
lish fiction, to include within its pages some rules for the 
writing of novels; or, I might perhaps say, with more 
modesty, to offer some advice on the art to such tyros 
in it as might be willing to take advantage of the ex- 
perience of an old hand. But the matter would, I fear, 
be too long for this episode, and I am not sure tliat I 
have as yet got the rules quite settled in my own mind. 
I will, however, say a few words on one or two points 
which my own practice has pointed out to me. 

I have from the first felt sure that the writer, when 
he sits down to commence his novel, should do so, not 
because he has to tell a story, but because he has a story 
to tell. The novelist's first novel will generally have 
sprung from the right cause. Some series of events or 
some development of character will have presented it- 
self to his imagination ; and this he feels so strongly 
that he thinks he can present his picture in strong and 
agreeable language to others. He sits down and tells 
Lis story because he has a story to tell ; as you, my friend, 



On Novels^ and the Art of Writing Them. 207 

■when you have heard something which has at once tick- 
led your fancy or moved your pathos, will hurry to tell 
it to the first person you meet. But when that first 
novel has been received graciously by the public and 
has made for itself a success, then the writer, naturally 
feeling that the writing of novels is within his grasp, 
looks about for something to tell in another. He cud- 
gels his brains, not always successfully, and sits down to 
write, not because he has something which he burns to 
tell, but because he feels it to be incumbent on him to 
be telling something. As you, my friend, if you are 
very successful in the telling of that first story, will be- 
come ambitious of further story-telling, and will look 
out for anecdotes — in the narration of which you will 
not improbably sometimes distress your audience. 

So it has been with many novelists, who, after some 
good work, perhaps after very much good work, have 
distressed their audience because they have gone on 
with their work till their work has become simply a 
trade with them. Need I make a list of such, seeins: 
that it would contain the names of those who have been 
greatest in the art of British novel-writing. They have 
at last become weary of that portion of a novelist's work 
which is of all the most essential to success. That a 
man, as he grows old, should feel the labor of writing to 
be a fatigue is natural enough. But a man to whom 
writing has become a habit may write w^ell though he 
be fatigued. But the w^eary novelist refuses any longer 
to give his mind to that work of observation and recep- 
tion from which has come his power, without which 
work his power cannot be continued — which work should 
be going on not only when he is at liis desk, but in all 



208 Autdbiograjphy of Anthony Trollope. 

his walks abroad, in all his movements through the 
world, in all his intercourse with his fellow - creatures. 
He has become a novelist, as another has become a poet, 
because he has, in those walks abroad, unconsciously, for 
the most part, been drawing in matter from all that he 
has seen and heard. But this has not been done with- 
out labor, even when the labor has been unconscious. 
Then there comes a time when he shuts his eyes and 
shuts his ears. When we talk of memory fading as age 
comes on, it is such shutting of eyes and ears that we 
mean. The things around cease to interest us, and we 
cannot exercise our minds upon them. To the novelist, 
thus wearied, there comes the demand for further novels. 
He does not know his own defect, and even if he did he 
does not wish to abandon his own profession. He still 
writes ; but he writes because he has to tell a story, not 
because he has a story to tell. What reader of novels 
has not felt the " woodenness" of this mode of telling? 
The characters do not live and move, but are cut out of 
blocks and are propped against the wall. The incidents 
are arranged in certain lines — the arrangement being as 
palpable to the reader as it has been to the writer — but 
do not follow each other as results naturally demanded 
by previous action. The reader can never feel — as he 
ought to feel — that only for that flame of the eye, only 
for that angry word, only for that moment of weakness, 
all might have been different. The course of the tale 
is one piece of stiff mechanism, in which there is no 
room for a doubt. 

These, it may be said, are reflections which I, being 
an old novelist, might make useful to myself for discon- 
tinuing my work, but can hardly be needed by those 



On Novels, and the Art of Writing Them, 209 

tyros of whom I have spoken. That they are applica- 
ble to myself I readily admit, but I also find that they 
apply to many beginners. Some of us who are old fail 
at last because we are old. It would be well that each 
of us should say to himself, 

*' Solve senescentem mature sanus equum, ne 
Peccet ad extremum ridendus." 

But many young fail also, because they endeavor to 
tell stories when they have none to telL And this 
comes from idleness rather than from innate incapacity. 
The mind has not been sufiiciently at work when the 
tale has been commenced, nor is it kept sufficiently at 
work as the tale is continued. I have never troubled 
myself much about the construction of plots, and am 
not now insisting Specially on thoroughness in a branch 
of work in which I myself have not been very thorough, 
I am not sure that the construction of a perfected plot 
has been at any period within my power. But the nov- 
elist has other aims than the elucidation of his plot. He 
desires to make his readers so intimately acquainted with 
his characters that the creatures of his brain should be 
to them speaking, moving, living, human creatures. 
This he can never do unless he know those fictitious per- 
sonages himself, and he can never know them unless he 
can live with them in the full reality of established in- 
timacy. They must be with him as he lies down to 
sleep, and as he wakes from liis dreams. He must 
learn to hate them and to love them. He must ar^rue 
with them, quarrel with them, forgive them, and even 
submit to them. He must know of them whether they 
be cold-blooded or passionate, whether true or false, and 
how far true, and how far false. The depth and the 



210 Autobiography of Anthony Trollojpe. 

breadth and the narrowness and the shallowness of each 
should be clear to him. And, as here, in our outer world, 
we know that men and women change — become worse 
or better as temptation or conscience may guide them 
— so should these creations of his change, and every 
change should be noted by him. On the last day of 
each month recorded, every person in his novel should 
be a month older than on the first. If the would-be 
novelist have aptitudes that way, all this will come to 
him without much struggling ; but if it do not come, I 
think he can only make novels of wood. 

It is so that I have lived with my characters, and 
thence has come whatever success I have obtained. 
There is a gallery of them, and of all in that gallery I 
may say that I know the tone of the voice, and the col- 
or of the hair, every flame of the eye, and the very 
clothes they wear. Of each man I could assert whether 
he would have said these or the other words ; of every 
woman, whether she would then have smiled or so have 
frowned. AVhen I shall feel that this intimacy ceases, 
then I shall know that the old horse should be turned 
out to grass. That I shall feel it when I ouglit to feel 
it I will by no means say. I do not know that I am 
at all wiser than Gil Bias' canon ; but I do know that 
the power indicated is one without which the teller of 
tales cannot tell them to any good effect. 

The language in which the novelist is to put forth 
his story, the colors with which he is to paint his pict- 
ure, must, of course, be to him matter of much considera- 
tion. Let him have all other possible gifts — imagina- 
tion, observation, erudition, and industry — they will avail 
him nothing for his purpose, unless he can put forth his 



On Novels^ and the Art of Writing Them. 211 

work in pleasant words. If lie be confused, tedious, 
harsh, or unharmonious, readers will certainly reject 
him. The reading of a volume of history or on science 
may represent itself as a duty ; and though the duty 
may by a bad style be made very disagreeable, the con- 
scientious reader will, perhaps, perform it. But the nov- 
elist will be assisted by no such feeling. Any reader 
may reject his work without the burden of a sin. It is 
the first necessity of his position that he make himself 
pleasant. To do this, much more is necessary than to 
write correctly. He ma}^, indeed, be pleasant without 
being correct — as I think can be proved by the works 
of more than one distinguished novelist. But he must 
be intelligible — intelligible without trouble; and he 
must be harmonious. 

Any writer who has read even a little will know what 
is meant by the word intelligible. It is not sufficient 
that tliere be a meaning that may be hammered out of 
the sentence, but that the language should be so pellucid 
that tlie meaning should be rendered without an effort 
of the reader; and not only some proposition of mean- 
ing, but the very sense, no more and no less, which the 
writer has intended to put into his words. What Ma- 
caulay says should be remembered by all writers : " How 
little the all-important art of making meaning pellucid 
is studied now ! Hardly any popular author except 
myself thinks of it." The language used should be as 
ready and as efficient a conductor of the mind of the 
Avriter to the mind of the reader as is the electric spark 
which passes from one battery to another battery. In 
all written matter the spark should carry everything ; 
but in matters recondite the recipient will search to see 



213 Autobiography of Anthony Trollope, 

that he misses nothing, and that he takes nothing away 
too much. The novelist cannot expect that any such 
search will be made. A young writer, who will acknowl- 
edge the truth of what I am saying, will often feel him- 
self tempted by the difficulties of language to tell him- 
self that some one little doubtful passage, some single 
collocation of words, which is not quite what it ought to 
be, will not matter. I know well what a stumbling- 
block such a passage may be. But he should leave none 
such behind him as he goes on. The habit of writing 
clearly soon comes to the writer who is a severe critic to 
himself. 

As to tliat harmonious expression which I think is re- 
quired, I shall find it more difficult to express my mean- 
ing. It will be granted, I think, by readers, that a style 
may be rough, and yet both forcible and intelligible ; 
but it will seldom come to pass that a novel written in 
a rough style will be popular — and less often that a 
novelist who habitually uses such a style will become 
so. The harmony which is required must come from 
the practice of the ear. There are few ears naturally 
so dull that they cannot, if time be allowed to them, de- 
cide whether a sentence, when read, be or be not har- 
monious. And the sense of such harmony grows on 
the ear, when the intelligence has once informed itself 
as to what is, and what is not, harmonious. The boy, 
for instance, who learns w^ith accuracy the prosody of a 
Sapphic stanza, and has received through his intelligence 
a knowledge of its parts, will soon tell by his ear whether 
a Sapphic stanza be or be not correct. Take a girl, en- 
dowed with gifts of music, well instructed in her art, 
with perfect ear, and read to her such a stanza with two 
words transposed, as, for instance — 



On Novelsyand the Art of Writing . 

" Mercuri, nam te docilis magistro 
Movit Amphion canendo lapides. 
Tuque testudo resoinare septem 
Callida nervis" — 

and she will find no halt in the rhythm. But a school-' 
boy with none of her musical acquirements or capacities, 
who has, however, become familiar with the metres of 
tlie i3oet, will at once discover tli,e fault.. And so will 
the writer become familiar with what is harmonious in 
prose. But in order that familiarity may serve him in 
his business, he must so train his ear that he shall be 
able to weigh the rhythm of every word as it falls from 
(lis pen. This, when it has been done for a time, even 
for a short time, will become so habi'tual to him that he 
will have appreciated the metrical duration of every 
syllable before it shall have dared io show itself upon 
paper. The art of the orator is the same. He knows 
beforehand how each sound which he is about to utter 
will affect the force of his climax. If a writer will do 
30 he will charm his readers, though his readers will 
probably not know how they have been charmed. 

In writing a novel the author soon becomes aware 
that a burden of many pages is before him. Circum- 
stances require that he should cover a certain, and gen- 
erally not a very confined, space. Short novels are not 
popular with readers generally. Critics often complain 
of the ordinary length of novels, of the tl'iree volumes, 
to which they are subjected ; but few noveL^ which liave 
attained great success in England have l)een told in 
fewer pages. The novel-writer who sticks to novel- 
writing as his profession will certainly fin'd that this 
burden of length is incumbent on him. Hc^w shall he 



j ^rapliy of Anthony TroUope. 

I drdeii to the end? How sliall he cover his 

Many great arti^sts have by their practice op 
.d the doctrine which I now propose to preach ; hm 
.aej have succeeded, I think, in spite of their fault, and 
Iby dint of their greatness. There should be no episodes in 
a novel. Every sentence, every word, through all those 
pages, should tend to the telling of the story. Such 
episodes distract the attention of the reader, and always 
do so disagreeably. Who has not felt this to be the 
case, even with "The Curious Impertinent," and with 
jthe "History of the Man of the Hill." And if it be 
'so with Cervantes and Fielding, who can hope to suc- 
ceed ? Though the novel which you have to write must 
be long, let it be all one. And this exclusion of epi- 
sodes should be carried down into the smallest details. 
jEvery sentence and every word used should tend to the 
jtelling of the sto;ry. " But," the young novelist will 
say, " with so many pages before me to be filled, how 
shall I succeed, i?f I thus confine myself; how am I to 
know beforehan(,i what space this story of mine will re- 
quire? There must be the three volumes, or the cer- 
jtain number of \nagazine pages, which I have contracted 
to supply. If I may not be discursive should occasion 
require, how shall I complete my task ? The painter 
suits the size of his canvas to his subject, and must I, in 
my art, stretcji my subject to my canvas ?" This un- 
doubtedly mu'st be done by the novelist ; and if he will 
|learn his business, may be done without injury to his 
jeffect. He^ may not paint different pictures on the 
same canvas, which he will do, if he allow himself to 
iwander awiiy to matters outside his own story ; but by 
studying p^roportion in his work, he may teach himself 



Oji Novels, and the Art oj 

so to tell liis story that it shall naturally ta. 
quired length. Though his story should be ah ^ 
it may have many parts. Though the plot itself iiic.^ 
require but few characters, it may be so enlarged as to 
iind its full development in many. There may be sub- 
sidiary plots, which shall all tend to the elucidation of 
the main story, and which will take their places as part 
of one and the same work, as there may be many fig- 
ures on a canvas, which shall not to the spectator seem 
to form themselves into separate pictures. 

There is no portion of a novelist's work in which 
this fault of episodes is so common as in the dialogue. 
It is so easy to make any two persons talk on any casual 
subject, with which the writer presumes himself to be 
conversant! Literature, philosophy, , politics, or sport 
may thus be handled in a loosely discursive style; and 
the writer, while indulging himself, and filling his 
pages, is apt to think that he is pleasing his reader. I 
think he can make no greater mistake. The dialogue 
is generally the most agreeable part of la novel ; but it 
is only so as long as it tends in some way to the telling 
of the main story. It need not seem to be confined to 
that, but it should always have a tendency: in that direc- 
tion. The unconscious critical acumen of a reader is 
both just and severe. When a long dialoi'^ue on extra- 
neous matter reaches his mind, he at once fe^els that he is 
being cheated into taking something which he did not 
bargain to accept when he took up that L.ovel. He 
does not at that moment require politics or |l:>hilosophy, 
but he wants his story. He will not, perhaps, be able to 
say in so many words that at some certain poii^t the dia- 
logue has deviated from the story ; but when it does so 



.atobiograjphy of Anthony Trollope. 

^ will feel it, and the feeling will be unpleasant. Let 
the intending novel-writer, if he doubt this, read one 
of Bulwer's novels — in which there is very much to 
charm — and then ask himself whether he has not been 
offended by devious conversations. 

And the dialogue, on wdiich the modern novelist, in 
consulting the taste of his probable readers, must de- 
pend most, has to be constrained also by other rules. 
The writer may tell much of his story in conversations, 
but he may only do so by putting such words into the 
mouths of his personages as persons so situated Avould 
probably use. He is not allowed, for the sake of his 
tale, to make his characters give utterance to long 
speeches, such as are not customarily heard from men 
and women. The ordinary talk of ordinary people is 
carried on in short, sharp, expressive sentences, which, 
very frequently, are never completed, the language of 
which even among educated people is often incorrect. 
The novel-writer, in constructing his dialogue, must so 
steer between absolute accuracy of language — which 
would give to j!iis conversation an air of pedantry — and 
the slovenly inaccuracy of ordinary talkers — which, if 
closely followed, would offend by an appearance of 
grimace — as to produce upon the ear of his readers a 
sense of realUy. If he be quite real, he will seem to at- 
tempt to be funny. If he be quite correct, he Avill seem 
to be unrea\. And, above all, let the speeches be short. 
No character should utter much above a dozen w^ords 
at a breatli, unless the writer can justify to himself 
a longer flood of speech, by the speciality of the occa- 
sion. 

In all t his human nature must be the novel-writer's 



II 



On Novels, ar 



of Writing Them. 217 



guide. JN'o doubt 
in whicli human 
miglit name " C* 
Blair " as anothc 
than enough to •" 
man nature he 
pen in his han 
ate human na^ 
literary aptit' 

The jou:^ 
bly beth'^J: 
edge of hi;ui'i' '<;' 



( lovels have been writtei 

s been set at defiance. 1 

tms ■' as one, and "Adam 

le exceptions are i^ot more 

tilt rule. But in following hu- 

M. rcijj'3mber that he does so wi1:h a 

d that the reader who will appreci- 

so demand artistic ability and 



ill probably ask, or more proba- 
>w he is to acquire that knowl- 
r.;'cart; which will tell him with accu- 
racy what uiun jud women would say in this or that 
r/sition. He must acquire it as the compositor, who is 
orint hif- words, has learned the art of distributintr 
ills tyjc — by constant and intelligent practice. Unless 
it be ■ v'en to him to listen and to observe, so to carry 
i^ were, the manners of people in his memory, 
) i>e ;iole to say to himself, with assurance, that these 
... i- might have been said in a giver position, and 
tho those other words could not have been said, I do 
not think that in these days he can succeed as a nov- 
elist. 

And then let him beware of creating tedium ! Who 
has not felt the charm of a spoken story up to a certain 
point, and then suddenly become aware that it has be- 
come too long, and is the reverse of charming. It is 
not only that the entire book may liave this fault, but 
that this fault may occur in chapters, in passages, in 
pages, in paragraphs. I know no guard against this so 
likely to be effective as the feeling of the writer him- 
self. When once the sense that the thing is becoming 

10 



'iJ- -J.---V ^J 



i^t/i/i//yc/. 



DDg has grown upon him, 
TOW npon his readers. I 
dll declare to themseives 1 
7ill never be tedious to hi- • 
^^hom this may be truly said, 
ru.th, that lie will always be tt 



sure that it will 

i.e of some, who 

•ds of a writer 

the writer of 

lid with equal 

readers. 



On Miglish Novelists of the Present Day. 219 



1 



Chapter XIII. 
ON ENGLISH NOVELISTS OF THE PRESENT DAY. 

In this chapter I will venture to name a few success- 
ful novelists of my own time, with whose works I am 
acquainted; and will endeavor to point whence their 
success has come, and why they have failed when there 
lias been failure. 

I do not hesitate to name Thackeray the first. His 
knowledge of human nature was supreme, and his char- 
acters stand out as human beings, with a force and a 
truth which has not, I think, been within the reach of 
my other English novelist in any period. I know no 
3haracter in fiction, unless it be Don Quixote, with 
^vhom the reader becomes so intimately acquainted as 
tvith Colonel ^ewcome. How great a thing it is to 
be a gentleman at all parts ! How we admire the man 
)i whom so much may be said with truth ! Is there 
my one of whom \yq feel more sure in this respect than 
Df Colonel ]S"ewcome ? It is not because Colonel E"ew- 
3ome is a perfect gentleman that we think Thackeray's 
tvork to have been so excellent, but because^ he has had 
:he power to describe him as such, and to iforce us to 
ove him, a weak and silly old man, on acco\unt of this 
^race of character. ! 

It is evident from all Thackeray's best woJ>'k that he 
ived with the characters he was creating^. Hie had al- 



j^ays a story to tell until quite late in life ; and be 
t shows us that this was so, not by the interest which he 
had in his own plots, for I doubt whether his plots did 
occupy nuch of his mind, but by convincing us that his 
characters w^ere alive to himself. With Becky Sharpe, 
with Lady Castlewood and her daughter, and with Es- 
mond, with Warrington, Pendennis, and the Major, with 
I Colonel Newcorae and with Barry Lyndon, he must 
have lived in perpetual intercourse. Therefore, he has 
made these personages real to us. 

Among all our novelists his style is the purest, as to 
my ear it is also the most harmonious. Sometimes it is 
I disfigured by a slight touch of affectation, by little con- 
ceits which smell of the oil ; but the language is always 
i lucid. The reader, without labor, knows what he means, 
and knows all that he means. As well as I can remem- 
ber, he deals with no episodes. I think that any critic, 
I examining his work minutely, would find that every 
I scene, and every part of every scene, adds something to 
the clearness with which the story is told. Among all 
his stories there is not one which does not leave on the 
mind a feelin^^ of distress that women should ever be 
immodest or men dishonest, and of joy that women 
should be so devoted and men so honest. How we 
hate the idle selfishness of Pendennis, the worldliness 
of Beatrix, ^^he craft of Becky Sharpe ! how we love 
the honesty of Colonel Newcome, the nobility of Es- 
mond, and / the devoted affection of Mrs. Pendennis ! 
The hatred of evil and love of good can hardly have 
come upon so many readers without doing much good. 

Late in Thackeray's life — lie never was an old man, but 
towards tihe end of his career — he failed in his power of 



On English Wovelists of the Present Day. 221 

charming, because lie allowed his mind to become idle. 
In the plots which he conceived, and in the language 
which he used, I do not know that there is any per- 
ceptible change ; but in " The Virginians " and in 
"Philip" the reader is introduced to no character with 
which he makes a close and undying acquaintance. 
And this, I have no doubt, is so because Thackeray 
himself had no such intimac^^ His mind had come to 
be weary of that fictitious life which is always demand- 
ing the labor of new creation, and he troubled himself 
with his two Virginians and his Philip only wdien he 
was seated at his desk. 

At the present moment George Eliot is the first of 
English novelists, and I am disposed to place her second 
of those of my time. She is best known to the literary 
world as a writer of prose fiction, and not imjDrobably 
whatever of permanent fame she may acquire will come 
from her novels. But the nature of her intellect is 
very far removed indeed from that which is common 
to the tellers of stories. Her imagination is, no doubt, 
strong, but it acts in analyzing rather than in creating. 
Everything that comes before her is pulled to pieces so 
that the inside of it shall be seen, and be seen, if possi- 
ble, by her readers as clearly as by herself. This search- 
ing analysis is carried so far that, in studying her later 
writings, one feels one's self to be in company with some 
philosopher rather than with a novelist. I doubt whether 
any young person can read with pleasure either " Felix 
Holt," '' Middlemarch," or " Daniel Deronda." I know 
that they are very difiicult to many that are not 
young. 

Her personifications of character have been singularly 



223 Autdbiograj>hy of Anthony Trollope, 

terse and graphic, and from tliem has come her great 
hold on the public, though by no means the greatest 
effect which she hf^s produced. The lessons which she 
teaches remain, though it is not for tlie sake of the les- 
sons that her pages are read. Seth Bede, Adam Bede, 
Maggie and Tom TuUiver, old Silas Marner, and, much 
above all, Tito, in " Eomola," are characters which, when 
once known, can never be forgotten. I cannot say quite 
so much for any of those in her later works, because in 
them the philosopher so greatly overtops the portrait- 
painter, that, in the dissection of the mind, the outward 
signs seem to have been forgotten. In her, as yet, there 
is no symptom whatever of that weariness of mind which, 
when felt by the reader, induces liim to declare that the 
author has written himself out. It is not from decadence 
that we do not have another Mrs. Poyser, but because 
the author soars to things which seem to her to be higher 
than Mrs. Poyser. 

It is, I think, the defect of George Eliot that she 
struggles too hard to do work that shall be excellent. 
She lacks ease. Latterly the signs of this have been 
conspicuous in her style, which has always been and is 
singularly correct, but which has become occasionally 
obscure from her too great desire to be pungent. It is 
impossible not to feel the struggle, and that feeling be- 
gets a flavor of affectation. In " Daniel Deronda," of 
which at this moment only a portion has been published, 
there are sentences which I have found myself com- 
pelled to read three times before I have been able to 
take home to myself all that the writer has intended. 
Perhaps I may be permitted here to say, that this gifted 
woman was among my dearest and most intimate friends. 



On English Novelists of the Present Day. 223 

As I am speaking here of novelists, I will not attempt 
to speak of George Eliot's merit as a poet. 

There can be no doubt that the most popular novelist 
of my time — probably the most popular English novelist 
of any time — has been Charles Dickens. He has now 
been dead nearly six years, and the sale of his books 
goes on as it did during his life. The certainty with 
which his novels are found in every house — the familiar- 
ity of his name in all English-speaking countries — the 
popularity of such characters as Mrs. Gamp, Micawber, 
and Pecksniff, and many others whose names have en- 
tered into the English language and become well-known 
words — the grief of the country at his death, and the 
honors paid to him at his funeral, all testify to his popu- 
larity. Since the last book he wrote himself, I doubt 
whether any book has been so popular as his biogra]3hy 
by John Forster. There is no withstanding such testi- 
mony as this. Such evidence of popular appreciation 
should go for very much, almost for everything, in 
criticism on the work of a novelist. The primary ob- 
ject of a novelist is to please; and this man's novels 
have been found more pleasant than those of any other 
writer. It might, of conrse, be objected to this, that 
thongh the books have pleased, they have been injuri- 
ous, that their tendency has been immoral and their 
teaching vicious ; but it is almost needless to say that 
no such charge has ever been made against Dickens.. 
His teaching has ever been good. From all whicli, there 
arises to the critic a question whether, with such evi- 
dence against him as to the excellence of this writer, he 
should not subordinate his own opinion to the collected 
opinion of the world of readers. To me it almost seems 



224 AutobiograpJiy of Anthony Trollope. 

that I must be wrong to place Dickens after Thackeray 
and George Eliot, knowing as I do that so great a major- 
ity put him above those authors. 

My own peculiar idiosyncrasy in the matter forbids 
me to do so, I do acknowledge that Mrs. Gamp, Micaw- 
ber, Pecksniff, and others have become household words 
in every house, as though they were human beings ; but 
to my judgment they are not human beings, nor are 
any of the characters human which Dickens has por- 
trayed. It has been the peculiarity and the marvel of 
this man's power that he has invested his puppets with 
a charm that has enabled him to dispense with human 
nature. There is a drollery about them, in my estima- 
tion, very much below the humor of Thackeray, but 
which has reached the intellect of all ; while Thack- 
eray's humor has escaped the intellect of many. ISTor 
is the pathos of Dickens human. It is stagey and melo- 
dramatic. But it is so expressed that it touches every 
heart a little. There is no real life in Smike. His 
misery, his idiotcy, his devotion for Nicholas, his love 
for Kate, are all overdone and incompatible with each 
other. But still the reader sheds a tear. Every reader 
can find a tear for Smike. Dickens's novels are like 
Boucicault's plays. He has known how to draw his 
lines broadly, so that all should see the color. 

He, too, in his best days, always lived with his char- 
acters ; and he, too, as he gradually ceased to have the 
power of doing so, ceased to charm. Though they are 
not human beings, we all remember Mrs. Gamp and 
Pickwick. The Bofiins and Yeneerings do not, I think, 
dwell in the minds of so many. 

Of Dickens's style it is impossible to speak in praise. 



On English Novelists of the Present Day. 225 

It is jerky, ungrammatical, and created by himself in 
defiance of rules — almost as completely as that created 
by Carlyle. . To readers who have taught themselves 
to regard language, it must, therefore, be unpleasant. 
But the critic is driven to feel tlie weakness of his criti- 
cism, when he acknowledges to himself — as he is com- 
pelled in all honesty to do — that with the language, 
such as it is, the writer has satisfied the great mass of 
the readers of his country. Both these great writers 
liave satisfied the readers of their own pages ; but both 
have done infinite harm bv creating a school of imita- 
tors. No young novelist should ever dare to imitate 
the style of Dickens. If sucli a one wants a model for 
his language, let him take Thackeray. 

Bulwer, or Lord Lytton — but I think that he is still 
better known by liis earlier name — was a man of very 
great parts. Better educated than either of those I 
have named before him, he was always able to use his 
erudition, and he thus produced novels from w^hich very 
much not only may be, but must be, learned by his 
readers. He thoroughly understood the political status 
of his own country, a subject on which, I think, Dickens 
was marvellously ignorant, and which Thackeray had 
never studied. He had read extensively, and w^as al- 
ways apt to give his readers the benefit of wliat he 
knew. The result has been that very much more than 
amusement may be obtained from Bulwer's novels. 
There is also a brightness about them — the result rather 
of thought than of imagination, of study and of care, 
than of mere intellect — which has made many of them 
excellent in their way. It is perhaps improper to class 
all his novels together, as he wrote in varied manners, 

10- 



226 Atitobiograjphij of Anthony Trollope. 

making in bis earlier works, such as "Pelham" and 
"Ernest Maltravers," pictures of a fictitious life, and 
afterwards pictures of life as he believed it to be, as in 
" My mvel " and " The Caxtons." But from all of 
them there comes the same flavor of an effort to pro- 
duce effect. Tbe effects are produced, but it would 
have been better if the flavor had not been there. 

I cannot say of Bulwer as I have of the other novel- 
ists whom I have named, tbat he lived with his characters. 
He lived with his work, with the doctrines which at the 
time he wished to preach, thinking always of the effects 
wliich he wished to preach ; but I do not think he ever 
knew his own personages, and therefore neither do we 
know them. Even Pelham and Eugene Aram are not 
human beings to us, as are Pickwick and Colonel New- 
come and Mrs. Poyser. 

In his plots Bulwer has generally been simple, facile, 
and successful. The reader never feels with liim, as he 
does with Wilkie Collins, that it is all plot, or, as with 
George Eliot, that there is no plot. The story comes 
naturally, without calling for too much attention, and is 
thus proof of the completeness of the man's intellect. 
His language is clear, good, intelligible English, but it is 
defaced by mannerism. In all that he did, affectation 
was his fault. 

How shall I speak of my dear old friend Charles 
Lever, and his rattling, jolly, joyous, swearing Irishmen. 
Surely never did a sense of vitality come so constantly 
from a man's pen, nor from man's voice, as from his ! 
I knew him well for many years, and whether in sick- 
ness or in health I have never come across him without 
finding him to be running over with wit and fun. Of all 



On English Novelists of the Present Day. 227 

the men I liave encountered, he was the surest fund of 
drollery. I have known many witty men, many who 
could say good things, many who would sometimes be 
ready to say them when wanted, though they would 
sometimes fail — but he never failed. Rouse him in 
the middle of the night, and wit would come from him 
before he was half awake. And yet he never monopo- 
lized the talk, was never a bore. He would take no 
more than his own share of the words spoken, and 
would yet seem to brighten all that was said during the 
night. His earlier novels — the later I have not read 
— are just like his conversation. The fun never flags, 
and to me, when I read them, they were never tedious. 
As to character, he can hardly be said to have produced 
it. Corney Delaney, the old man-servant, may perhaps 
be named as an exception. 

Lever's novels will not live long, even if they may be 
said to be alive now, because it is so. What was his 
manner of working I do not know, but I should think 
it must have been very quick, and that he never troubled 
himself on the subject, except when he was seated with 
a pen in his hand. 

Charlotte Bronte was surely a marvellous woman. If 
it could be right to judge the work of a novelist from 
one small portion of one novel, and to say of an author 
that he is to be accounted as strong as he shows himself 
to be in his strongest morsel of work, I should be in- 
clined to put Miss Bronte very high indeed. I know 
no interest more thrilling than that which she has been 
able to throw into the characters of Rochester and the 
governess, in the second volume of " Jane Eyre." She 
lived with those characters, and felt every fibre of th 



228 Autoliograj>hy of Anthony Trollope. 

heart, the longings of the one and the sufferings of the 
other. And therefore, thougli the end of the book is 
weak, and tlie beginning not very good, I venture to 
predict that "Jane Eyre" will be read among English 
novels when many Avhose names are now better known 
shall have been forgotten. " Jane Eyre" and " Esmond" 
and "Adam Bede" will be in the hands of our grand- 
children, when " Pickwick " and " Pelham " and "Harry 
Lorrequer " are forgotten ; because the men and women 
depicted are human in their aspirations, human in their 
sympathies, and human in their actions. 

In " Yillette," too, and in " Shirley," there is to be 
found human life as natural and as real, though in cir- 
cumstances not so full of interest as those told in " Jane 
Eyre." The character of Paul, in the former of the two, 
is a wonderful study. She must herself have been in 
love w^ith some Paul when she wrote the book, and have 
been determined to prove to herself that she was ca- 
pable of loving one whose exterior circumstances were 
mean and in every way unprepossessing. 

There is no writer of the present day who has so 
much puzzled me by his eccentricities, impracticabilities, 
and capabilities as Charles Reade. I look upon him as 
endowed almost with genius, but as one who has not 
been gifted by nature with ordinary powers of reasoning. 
He can see what is grandly noble, and admire it with all 
his heart. He can see, too, what is foully vicious, and 
hate it with equal ardor. But in the common affairs of 
life he cannot feee what is right or wrong ; and as he is 
altogether unwilling to be guided by the opinion of 
others, he is constantly making mistakes in his literary 
areer, and subjecting himself to reproach which he 



On English Novelists of the Present Day. 229 

hardly deserves. He means to be honest. He means 
to be especially honest, more honest than other people. 
He has written a book called "The Eighth Command- 
ment," on behalf of honesty in literary transactions — a 
wonderful work, which has, I believe, been read by a 
very few. I never saw a copy except that in my own 
library, or heard of any one who knew the book, l^ev- 
ertheless it is a volume that must have taken very great 
labor, and have been written — as, indeed, he declares that 
it was written — without the hope of pecuniary reward. 
He makes an appeal to the British parliament and Brit- 
ish people on behalf of literary honesty, declaring that, 
should he fail — " I shall have to go on blushing for the 
people I was born among." And yet, of all the writers 
of my day, he has seemed to me to understand literary 
honesty the least. On one occasion, as he tells ns in this 
book, he bought for a certain sum, from a French author, 
the right of using a plot taken from a play, which he 
probably might have used without such purchase, ^nd 
also without infringing any international copyright act. 
The French author not unnaturally praises him for tli^e 
transaction, telling him that he is ^'un vrai gentleman.^'' 
The plot was used by Reade in a novel ; and a critic, 
discovering the adaptation, made known his discovery to 
the public. Whereupon the novelist became angry, 
called his critic a pseudonymuncle, and defended him- 
self by stating the fact of his own purchase. In all this 
he seems to me to ignore what we all mean when we 
talk of literary plagiarism and literary honesty. The 
sin of which the author is accused is not that of taking 
another man's property, but of passing off as his own 
creation that which he does not himself create. When 



230 Autoliography of Anthony Trollojpe. 

an author puts liis name to a book he claims to have 
written all that there is therein, unless he makes direct 
signification to the contrary. Some years subsequently 
there arose another similar question, in which Mr. 
Eeade's opinion was declared even more plainly, and 
certainly very much more publicly. In a tale which 
he wrote he inserted a dialogue which he took from 
Swift, and took without any acknovv^ledgment. As 
might have been expected, one of the critics of the day 
fell foul of him for this barefaced plagiarism. The 
author, however, defended himself, with much abuse of 
the critic, by asserting, that whereas Swift had found 
the jewel, he had supplied the setting — an argument in 
which there was some little wit, and would have been 
much excellent truth, had he given the words as belong- 
ing to Swift and not to himself. 

The novels of a man possessed of so singular a mind 
must themselves be very strange — and they are strange. 
It has generally been his object to write down some 
abuse with which he has been particularly struck — the 
harshness, for instance, with which paupers or lunatics 
are treated, or the wickedness of certain classes — and he 
always, I think, leaves upon his readers an idea of great 
earnestness of purpose. But he has always left, at the 
same time, on my mind so strong a conviction that he 
has not really understood his subject, that I have ever 
found myself taking the part of those whom he has ac- 
cused. So good a heart, and so wrong a head, surely no 
novelist ever before had combined ! In story-telling he 
has occasionally been almost great. Among his novels 
I would especially recommend " The Cloister and the 
Hearth." I do not know that in this work, or in any, 



On English Novelists of the Fre^f'^^ ^ay. ggj- 

tliat he has left a character that will remain >\ but he has 
written some of his scenes so brightly that to^^ead them 
w^ould alwaj's be a pleasure. \ 

Of Wilkie Collins it is impossible for a tru? critic 
not to speak with admiration, because he has excelbd all 
his contemporaries in a certain most difficult branc'i^ of 
his art ; but as it is a branch wliich I have not myselKt 
all cultivated, it is not unnatural that his work shoul\ 
be very much lost upon me individually. When I sit\ 
down to write a novel I do not at all know, and I do 
not very much care, how it is to end. Wilkie Collins 
seems so to construct his that he not only, before writ- 
ing, plans everything on, down to the minutest detail, 
from the beginning to the end; but then plots it all 
back again, to see that there is no piece of necessary 
dovetailing which does not dovetail with absolute ac- 
curacy. The construction is most minute and most 
wonderful. But I can never lose the taste of the con- 
struction. Tlie author seems always to be warning me 
to remember that something happened at exactly half- 
past two o'clock on Tuesday morning ; or that a woman 
disappeared from the road just fifteen yards beyond the 
fourth mile-stone. One is constrained by mysteries and 
hemmed in by difficulties, knowing, however, that the 
mysteries will be made clear, and the difficulties over- 
come, at the end of the third volume. Such work gives 
me no pleasure. I am, however, quite prepared to ac- 
knowledge that the want of pleasure comes from fault 
of my intellect. 

There are two ladies of whom I would fain say a 
word, though I feel that I am making my list too long, 
in order that I may declare how much I have admired 



;i3S Autobvbgrajpliy of Anthony Trollope. 

their work," They are Anne Thackeray and Ehoda 
Broughtop,. I have known them both, and have loved 
the form'er ahnost as though she belonged to me. ]^o 
two waiters were ever more dissimilar, except in this 
that -they are both feminine. Miss Thackeray's charac- 
ters are sweet, charming, and quite true to human nat- 
ure. In her writings she is always endeavoring to prove 
that good produces good, and evil evil. Tliere is not a 
line of which she need be ashamed, not a sentiment 
of which she should not be proud. But she writes 
like a lazy writer who dislikes her work, and who al- 
lows her own want of energy to show itself in her pages. 
Miss Broughton, on the other hand, is full of energy 
— though she too, I think, can become tired over her 
w^ork. She, however, does take the trouble to make her 
personages stand upright on tlie ground. And she has 
the gift of making them speak as men and women do 
speak. '^ You beast !" said Nancy, sitting on the wall, 
to the man who was to be her husband — thinkins: that 
she was speaking to her brother. Now Nancy, whether 
right or wrong, was just the girl who would, as circum- 
stances then were, have called her brother a beast. 
There is nothing wooden about any of Miss Broughton's 
novels — and in these days so many novels are wooden ! 
But they are not sweet-savored as are those by Miss 
Thackeray, and are, therefore, less true to nature. In 
Miss Broughton's determination not to be mawkish 
and missish, she has made her ladies do and say things 
which ladies would not do and say. They throw them- 
selves at men's heads, and when they are not accepted 
only think how they may throw themselves again. 
Miss Broughton is still so young that I hope she may 
live to overcome her fault in this direction. 



On English Novelists of the Present Bay, 233 

There is one other name, without which the list of 
the best-known English novelists of my own time would 
certainly be incomplete, and that is the name of the 
present prime-minister of England. Mr. Disraeli has 
written so many novels, and has been so popular as a 
novelist, that, whether for good or for ill, I feel myself 
compelled to speak of him. He began his career as an 
author early in life, publishing "Vivian Grey" when 
he was twenty-three years old. He was very young 
for such work, though hardly young enough to justify 
the excuse that he makes in his own preface, that it is a 
book written by a boy. Dickens was, I think, younger 
when he wrote his " Sketches by Boz," and as young 
when he was writing the "Pickwick Papers." It was 
hardly longer ago than the other day when Mr. Disraeli 
brought out "Lothair," and between the two there were 
eight or ten others. To me they have all had the same 
flavor of paint and unreality. In whatever he has w^rit- 
ten he has affected something which has been intended 
to strike his readers as uncommon, and therefore grand. 
Because he has been bright and a man of genius, he 
lias carried his object as regards the young. He has 
struck them with astonishment, and aroused in their 
imagination ideas of a world more glorious, more rich, 
more w^itty, more enterprising, than their own. But 
the glory lias been the glory of pasteboard, and the 
wealth has been a wealth of tinsel. The wit has been 
the wit of hair-dressers, and the enterprise has been the 
enterprise of mountebanks. An audacious conjurer has 
generally been his hero — some youth who, by wonder- 
ful cleverness, can obtain success by every intrigue that 
comes to his hand. Through it all there is a feeling of 



234 Autobiography of Anthony Trollojpe. 

stage properties, a smell of hair-oil, an aspect of biilil, a 
remembrance of tailors, and that pricking of the con- 
science which must be the general accompaniment of 
paste diamonds. I can understand that Mr. Disraeli 
should, by his novels, have instigated many a young man 
and many a young woman on their way in life, but I 
cannot understand that he should have instigated any 
one to good. Yivian Grey has had probably as many 
followers as Jack Sheppard, and has led his followers 
in the same direction. 

" Lothair," which is as yet Mr. Disraeli's last work, 
and, I think, undoubtedly his worst, has been defended 
on a plea somewhat similar to that by which he has 
defended "Vivian Grey." As that was written when 
he was too young, so was the other when he was too 
old — too old for work of that nature, though not too 
old to bo prime-minister. If Jiis mind were so occupied 
with greater things as to allow him to WTite such a 
work, yet his judgment should have sufficed to induce 
him to destroy it when written. Here that flavor of 
hair-oil, that flavor of false jewels, that remembrance of 
tailors, comes out stronger than in all the others. Lo- 
thair is falser even than Yivian Grey, and Lady Cory- 
sand, the daughter of the duchess, more inane and un- 
womanlike than Yenetia or Henrietta Temple. It is 
the very bathos of story-telling. I have often lament- 
ed, and have as often excused to myself, that lack of 
public judgment which enables readers to put uj) with 
bad work because it comes from good or from lofty 
hands. I never felt the feeling so strongly, or was so 
little able to excuse it, as when a portion of the reading 
public received "Lothair" with satisfaction. 



On Criticism. 235 



Chapter XIY. 
ON CRITICISM. 

LiTEKAKY criticism in the present day has become a 
profession — but it has ceased to be an art. Its object 
is no longer that of proving that certain literary work 
is good, and other literary work is bad, in accordance 
with rules which the critic is able to define. English 
criticism at present rarely even pretends to go so far as 
this. It attempts, in the first place, to tell the public 
whether a book be or be not worth public attention ; 
and, in the second place, so to describe the purport of 
the work as to enable those who have not time or in- 
clination for reading it to feel that by a short-cut they 
can become acquainted with its contents. Both these 
objects, if fairly well carried out, are salutary. Though 
the critic may not be a profound judge himself, though 
not unfrequently he be a young man making his first 
literary attempts, with tastes and judgment still unfixed, 
yet he probably has a conscience in the matter, and 
would not have been selected for that work had he not 
shown some aptitude for it. Thougli he may not be 
the best possible guide to the undiscerning, he will be 
better than no guide at all. Real substantial criticism 
must, from its nature, be costly, and that which the 
public wants should, at any rate, be cheap. Advice is 
given to many thousands, which, though it may not be 



236 Aiit6biogra][>liy of Anthony' TroUope. 

the best advice possible, is better than no advice at all. 
Then that description of the work criticised, that com- 
pressing of the much into very little — which is the 
work of many modern critics or reviewers — does enable 
many to know something of what is being said, who 
without it would know nothing. 

I do not think it is incumbent on me at present to 
name periodicals in which this work is well done, and 
to make complaints of others by which it is scamped. 
I should give offence, and might probably be unjust. 
But I think I may certainly say that as some of these 
periodicals are certainly entitled to great praise for the 
manner in which the work is done generally, so are 
others open to very severe censure — and that the praise 
and that the censure are chiefly due on behalf of one 
virtue and its opposite vice. It is not critical ability 
that we have a right to demand, or its absence that we 
are bound to deplore. Critical ability for the price we 
pay is not attainable. It is a faculty not peculiar to 
Englishmen, and when displayed is very frequently not 
appreciated. But that critics should be honest we have 
a right to demand, and critical dishonesty we are bound 
to expose. If the writer will tell us what he thinks, 
though his thoughts be absolutely vague and useless, 
we can forgive him ; but when he tells us what he does 
not think, actuated either by friendship or by animos- 
ity, then there should be no pardon for him. This is 
the sin in modern English criticism of which there is 
most reason to complain. 

It is a lamentable fact that men and women lend 
themselves to this practice who are neither vindictive 
nor ordinarily dishonest. It has become " the custom 



On Criticism. 237 

of the trade," under the veil of which excuse so many 
tradesmen justify their malpractices. When a strug- 
gling author learns that so much has been done for A 
by the Barsetsliire Gazette^ so much for B by the Dills- 
horough Herald, and, again, so much for C by that pow- 
erful metropolitan oi'gan the Evening Pulpit, and is 
told also that A and B and C have been favored through 
personal interest, he also goes to work among the edi- 
tors, or the editors' wives — or, perhaps, if he cannot 
reach their wives, with their wives' first or second cous- 
ins. When once the feeling has come upon an editor 
or a critic that lie may allow himself to be influenced 
by other considerations than the duty he owes to the 
public, all sense of critical or of editorial honesty falls 
from him at once. Facilis descensus Averni. In a 
very short time that editorial honesty becomes ridicu- 
lous to himself. It is for other purpose that he wields 
the power; and when he is told what is his duty, and 
what should be his conduct, the preacher of such doc- 
trine seems to him to be quixotic. '' Where have you 
lived, my friend, for the last twenty years," he says in 
spirit, if not in word, " that you come out now with 
such stuff as old-fashioned as this?" And thus dishon- 
esty begets dishonesty, till dishonesty seems to be beau- 
tiful. How nice to be good-natured ! How glorious 
to assist struggling young authors, especially if the 
young author be also a pretty woman ! How gracious 
to oblige a friend ! Then the motive, though still pleas- 
ing, departs further from the border of what is good. 
In what way can the critic better repay the hospitality 
of his wealthy literary friend than by good-natured 
criticism, or more certainly insure for himself a contin- 
uation of hospitable favors ? 



238 Antohiograjphy of Anthony Trollope. 

Some years since a critic of the day, a gentleman 
well known then in literary circles, showed me the 
manuscript of a book recently published, the work of a 
popular author. It was handsomely bound, and was a 
valuable and desirable possession. It had just been 
given to him by the author, as an acknow^ledgment for 
a laudatory review in one of the leading journals of the 
day. As I was expressly asked whether I did not re- 
gard such a token as a sign of grace both in the giver 
and in the receiver, I said that I thought it should 
neither have been given nor have been taken. My 
theory was repudiated with scorn, and I was told that I 
was strait-laced, visionary, and impracticable ! In all 
that the damage did not lie in the fact of that one pres- 
ent, but in the feeling on the part of the critic that his 
office was not debased by the acceptance of presents 
from those whom he criticised. This man was a profes- 
sional critic, bound by his contract with certain employ- 
ers to review such books as were sent to him. How 
could he, when he had received a valuable present for 
praising one book, censure another by the same author? 

While I write this I well know that w^hat I say, if it 
be ever noticed at all, will be taken as a straining at 
gnats, as a pretence of honesty, or, at any rate, as an ex- 
aggeration of scruples. I have said the same thing be- 
fore, and have been ridiculed for saying it. But none 
the less am I sure that English literature generally is 
suffering much under this evil. All those who are 
struggling for success have forced upon them the idea 
that their strongest efforts should be made in touting for 
praise. Those who are not familiar with the lives of 
authors will hardly believe how low will be the forms 



On Criticism. 



239 



which then* struggles will take ; how little presents will 
be sent to men wdio write little articles ; how much flat- 
tery may be expended, even on the keeper of a circulat- 
ing library; with w^hat profuse and distant genuflexions 
approaches are made to the outside railing of the temple 
which contains within it the great thunderer of some 
metropolitan periodical publication ! The evil here is 
not only that done to the public when interested coun- 
sel is given to them, but extends to the debasement of 
those who have, at any rate, considered themselves fit to 
provide literature for the public. 

I am satisfied that the remedy for this evil must lie 
in the conscience and deportment of authors themselves. 
If once the feeling could be produced that it is disgrace- 
ful for an author to ask for praise — and demands for 
praise are, I think, disgraceful in every walk of life — 
the practice would gradually fall into the hands only 
of the lowest, and that which is done only by the low- 
est soon becomes despicable even to them. The sin, 
when perpetuated with unflagging labor, brings with it 
at best very poor reward. That w^ork of running after 
critics, editors, publishers, the keepers of circulating li- 
braries, and their clerks, is very hard, and must be very 
disagreeable. He who does it must feel himself to be 
dishonored — or she. It may, perhaps, help to sell an 
edition, but can never make an author successful. 

I think it may be laid down as a golden rule in liter- 
ature that there should be no intercourse at all between 
an author and his critic. The critic, as critic, should 
not know his author, nor the author, as author, his critic. 
As censure should beget no anger, so should praise be- 
get no gratitude. The young author should feel that 



240 Autobiography of Anthony Trollojpe. 

criticisms fall upon liim as dew or hail from heaven — 
which, as coming from heaven, man accepts as fate. 
Praise let the author try to obtain by wholesome effort ; 
censure let him avoid, if possible, by care and industry. 
Eut when they come, let him take them as coming from 
some source which he cannot influence, au^jrwith which 
he should not meddle. 

I know no more disagreeable trouble into which an au- 
thor may plunge himself than that of a quarrel with his 
critics, or any more useless labor than that of answering 
them. It is wise to presume, at any rate, that the re- 
view^er has simply done his duty, and has spoken of the 
book according to the dictates of his conscience. Noth- 
ing can be gained by combating the reviewer's opinion. 
If the book which he has disparaged be good, his judg- 
ment will be condemned by the praise of others ; if bad, 
his judgment will be confirmed by others. Or if, un- 
fortunately, the criticism of the day be in so evil a con- 
dition generally that such ultimate truth cannot be ex- 
pected, the author may be sure that his efforts made on 
behalf of his own book will not set matters right. If 
injustice be done him, let him bear it. To do so is con- 
sonant with the dignity of the position which he ought 
to assume. To shriek, and scream, and sputter, to 
threaten actions, and to swear about the town that he 
has been belied and defamed in that he has been accused 
of bad grammar or a false metaphor, of a dull chapter, 
or even of a borrowed heroine, will leave on the minds 
of the public nothing but a sense of irritated impotence. 

If, indeed, there should spring from an author's work 
any assertion by a critic injurious to the author's honor, 
if the author be accused of falsehood or of personal mo- 



On Criticism. 241 

lives which care discreditable to him, then, indeed, he 
may be bound to answer the charge. It is hoped, how- 
ever, that he may be able to do so with clean hands, or 
he will so stir the mud in the pool as to come forth 
dirtier than he w^ent into it. 

I have lived much among men by whom the English 
criticism of the day has been vehemently abused. I 
have heard it said that to the public it is a false guide, 
and that to authors it is never a trustworthy mentor. 
I do not concur in this wholesale censure. There is, of 
course, criticism and criticism. There are at this mo- 
ment one or two periodicals to which both public and 
authors may siifely look for guidance, though there are 
many others from which no spark of literary advantage 
may be obtained. But it is w^ell that both public and 
authors should know what is the advantage which they 
liave a right to expect. There have been critics — and 
there probably will be again, though the circumstances 
of English literature do not tend to produce them — with 
power sufficient to entitle them to speak with authority. 
These great men have declared, tanquam ex cathedi'd, 
that such a book has been so far good and so far bad, or 
that it has been altogether good or altogether bad ; and 
the world has believed them. When making such as- 
sertions they have given their reasons, explained their 
causes, and have carried conviction. Very great reputa- 
tions have been achieved by such critics, but not with- 
out infinite study and the labor of many years. 

Such are not the critics of the day, of whom w^e are 
now speaking. In the literary world as it lives at pres- 
ent some writer is selected for the place of critic to 
a newspaper, generally some young writer, who for so 

11 



242 Autobiography of Anthony Trollojpe. 

many shillings a column shall review whatever book is 
sent to him and express an opinion — reading the book 
through for the purpose, if the amount of honorarium 
as measured with the amount of labor will enable him 
to do so. A laborer must measure his work by his pay 
or he cannot live. From criticism such as this must for 
the most part be, the general reader has no right to ex- 
pect philosophical analysis, or literary judgment on 
which confidence may be placed. But he probably may 
believe that the books praised will be better than the 
books censured, and that those which are praised by 
periodicals which never censure are better worth his 
attention than those which are not noticed. And read- 
ers will also find that by devoting an hour or two on 
Saturday to the criticisms of the week, they will enable 
themselves to have an opinion about the books of tlie 
day. The knowledge so acquired will not be great, nor 
will that little be lasting; but it adds something to the 
pleasure of life to be able to talk on subjects of which 
others are speaking; and the man who has sedulously 
gone through the literary notices in the Spectator and 
the Saturday may perhaps be justified in thinking him- 
self as well able to talk about the new book as his friend 
who has brought that new book on the tapis^ and who, 
not improbably, obtained his information from the same 
source. 

As an author, I have paid careful attention to the re- 
views which have been written on my own work ; and 
I think that now I well know where I may look for a 
little instruction, where I may expect only greasy adula- 
tion, where I shall be cut up into mince-meat for the 
delight of those who love sharp invective, and where I 



On Criticism, 243 

shall find an equal mixture of praise and censure so ad- 
justed, without much judgment, as to exhibit the impar- 
tiality of the newspaper and its staff. Among it all 
there is much chaff, which I have learned how to throw 
to the winds, with equal disregard whether it praises or 
blames ; but I have also found some corn, on which I 
have fed and nourished myself, and for which I have 
been thankful. 



244 Autobiograjphy of Anthony Trollojpe. 



Chapter XY. 

*'THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET." — LEAVING THE 
POST-OFFICE.— " ST. PAUL'S MAGAZINE." 

I WILL now go back to the year 1867, in whicli I was 
still living at Waltham Cross. I had some time since 
bought the house there which I had at first hired, and 
added rooms to it, and made it for our purposes very com- 
fortable. It was, however, a rickety old place, requiring 
much repair, and occasionally not as weather-tight as it 
should be. We had a domain there sufficient for the 
cows, and for the making of our butter and hay. For 
strawberries, asparagus, green pease, out-of-door peaches 
— for roses especially — and such everyday luxuries, no 
place was ever more excellent. It was only twelve miles 
from London, and admitted, therefore, of frequent inter- 
course with the metropolis. It was also near enough to 
the Koothing country for hunting purposes. Ko doubt 
the Shoreditch Station, by which it had to be reached, 
had its drawbacks. My average distance, also, to the 
Essex meets was twenty miles; but the place combined 
as much or more than I had a right to expect. It was 
within my own postal district, and had, upon the whole, 
been well chosen. 

The work I did during the twelve years that I re- 
mained there — from 1859 to 1871 — was certainly very 
great. I feel confident that in amount no other writer 



^^TJie Last Chronicle of BarsetP 245 

contributed so nuich during that time to English litera- 
ture. Over and above my novels, I wrote political arti- 
cles, critical, social, and sporting articles, for periodicals, 
without number. I did the work of a surveyor of the 
General Post-office, and so did it as to give the authori- 
ties of the department no slightest pretext for fault- 
finding. I hunted always at least twice a week. I was 
frequent in the whist-room at the Garrick. I lived much 
in society in London, and was made happy by the pres- 
ence of many friends at Waltham Cross. In addition 
to this we always spent six weeks, at least, out of Eng- 
land. Few men, I think, ever lived a fuller life ; and I 
attribute the power of doing this altogether to the vir- 
tue of early hours. It was my practice to be at my table 
every morning at 5.30 ; and it was also my practice to 
allow myself no mercy. An old groom, whose business 
it was to call me, and to whom I paid £5 a year extra 
for the duty, allowed himself no mercy. During all 
those years at Waltham Cross he was never once late 
with the coEee which it was his duty to bring me. I 
do not know that I ought not to feel that I owe more to 
him than to any one else for the success I have had. 
By beginning at that hour I could complete my literary 
work before I dressed for breakfast. 

All those, I think, who have lived as literary men — ■ 
w^orking daily as literary laborers — will agree with me 
that three hours a day will produce as much as a man 
ought to write. But then he should so have trained 
himself that he shall be able to work continuously dur- 
ine: those three hours — so have tutored his mind that it 
shall not be necessary for him to sit nibbling his pen, 
and g-azinsr at the wall before him, till he shall have 



246 AutdbiograpTiy of Anthony Trollojpe. 

found the words with which he wants to express his 
ideas. It had at this time become my custom — and it 
still is my custom, though of late I have become a little 
lenient to myself — to write with my watch before me, 
and to require from myself 250 words every quarter of 
an hour. I liave found that the 250 words have been 
forthcoming as regularly as my watch went. But my 
three hours were not devoted entirely to writing. I 
always began my task by reading the work of the day 
before, an operation which would take me half an hour, 
and which consisted chiefly in weighing with my ear 
the sound of the words and phrases. I would strongly 
recommend this practice to all tyros in writing. That 
their work should be read after it has been written is a 
matter of course ; that it should be read twice, at least, 
before it goes to the printers, I take to be- a matter of 
course. But by reading what he has last written, just 
before he recommences his task, the writer will catch 
the tone and spirit of what he is then saying, and will 
avoid the fault of seeming to be unlike himself. This 
division of time allowed me to produce over ten pages 
of an ordinary novel volume a day, and if kept up 
through ten months, would have given as its results 
three novels of three volumes each in the year — the pre- 
cise amount which so greatly acerbated the publisher in 
Paternoster Eow, and which must, at any rate, be felt 
to be quite as much as the novel-readers of the world 
can want from the hands of one man. 

I have never written three novels in a year ; but by 
following the plan above described I have written more 
than as much as three novels; and by adhering to it 
over a course of years I have been enabled to have al- 



"-The Last Chronide of BarsetP 247 

ways on hand — for some time back now — one or two, or 
even tliree, unpublished novels in my desk beside me. 
Were I to die now, there are three such besides " The 
Prime Minister," half of which has only yet been issued. 
One of these has been six years finished, and has never 
seen the light since it was first tied np in the wrapper 
which now contains it. I look forward with some grim 
pleasantry to its publication after another period of six 
years, and to the declaration of the critics that it has 
been the work of a period of life at which the power of 
writing novels had passed from me. Not improbably, 
however, these pages may be printed first. 

In 1866 and 1867 *' The Last Chronicle of Barset" 
was brought out by George Smith, in sixpenny monthly 
numbers. I do not know that this mode of publication 
had been tried before, or that it answered very well on 
this occasion. Indeed, the shilling magazines had inter- 
fered greatly with the success of novels published in 
numbers without other accompanying matter. The pub- 
lic, finding that so much might be had for a shilling, 
in which a portion of one or more novels was always 
included, were unwilling to spend their money on the 
novel alone. Feeling that this certainly had become the 
case in reference to novels published in shilling num- 
bers, Mr. Smith and I determined to make the experi- 
ment with sixpenny parts. As he paid me £3000 for 
the use of my manuscript, the loss, if any, did not fall 
upon me. If I remember right, the enterprise was not 
altogether successful. 

Taking it as a whole, I regard this as the best novel I 
have written. I was never quite satisfied with the de- 
velopment of the plot, which consisted in the loss of a 



248 Autobiography of Anthony Trollojpe. 

check, of a charge made against a clergyman for stealing 
it, and of absolute uncertainty on the part of the clergy- 
man himself as to the manner in which the check had 
found its way into his hands. I cannot quite make my- 
self believe that even such a man as Mr. Crawley could 
have forgotten how he got it ; nor would the generous 
friend who was anxious to supply his wants have sup- 
plied them by tendering the check of a third person. 
Such fault I acknowledge — acknowledging, at the same 
time, that I have never been capable of constructing 
with complete success the intricacies of a plot that re- 
quired to be unravelled. But while confessing so much, 
I claim to have portrayed the mind of the unfortunate 
man with great accuracy and greater delicacy. The pride, 
the humility, the manliness, the weakness, the conscien- 
tious rectitude and bitter prejudices of Mr. Crawley 
were, I feel, true to nature and well described. The 
surroundings, too, are good. Mrs. Proudie, at the pal- 
ace, is a real woman ; and the poor old dean dying at 
the deanery is also real. The archdeacon, in his victory, 
is very real. There is a true savor of English country 
life all through the book. It was with many misgiv- 
ings that I killed my old friend Mrs. Proudie. I could 
not, I think, have done it, but for a resolution taken and 
declared under circumstances of great momentary press- 
ure. 

It was thus that it came about. I was sitting one 
morning at work upon the novel, at the end of the long 
drawing-room of the Athengeum Club — as was then my 
wont when I had slept the previous night in London. 
As I was there, two clergymen, each with a magazine in 
his hand, seated themselves — one on one side of the fire 



"TAd Last Chronicle of Bar set P 249 

and one on the otlier — close to me. They soon began 
to abuse what they were reading, and each was reading 
some part of some novel of mine. The gravamen of 
their complaint lay in the fact that I reintroduced the 
same characters so often. " Here," said one, " is that 
archdeacon whom we have had in every novel he has 
ever written." " And here," said the other, " is the old 
duke whom he has talked about till everybody is tired 
of him. If I could not invent new characters, I would 
not write novels at all." Then one of them fell foul of 
Mrs. Proudie. It was impossible for me not to hear their 
words, and almost impossible to hear them and be qniet. 
I got up, and standing between them, I acknowledged 
myself to be the culprit. " As to Mrs. Proudie," I said, 
" I will go home and kill her before the week is over." 
And so I did. The two gentlemen were utterly con- 
founded, and one of them begged me to forget his friv- 
olous observations. 

I have sometimes regretted the deed, so great was my 
delight in writing about Mrs. Proudie, so thorough was 
my knowledge of all the little shades of her character. 
It was not only that she was a tyrant, a bully, a would- 
be priestess, a very vulgar woman, and one who would 
send headlong to the nethermost pit all who disagreed 
with her; but that at the same time she was conscien- 
tious, by no means a hypocrite, really believing in the 
brimstone which she threatened, and anxious to save 
the souls around her from its horrors. And as her tyr- 
anny increased, so did the bitterness of the moments of 
her repentance increase, in that she knew herself to be a 
tyrant — till that bitterness killed her. Since her time, 
others have grown up equally dear to me — Lady Glen- 

11^ 



250 Autobiography of Anthony Trollope. 

cora and her husband, for instance ; but I have never 
dissevered myself from Mrs. Proudie, and still live 
much in company with her ghost. 

I have in a previous chapter said how I wrote " Can 
You Forgive Her ?" after the plot of a play which had 
been rejected, which play had been called " The Noble 
Jilt." Some year or two after the completion of " The 
Last Chronicle," I was asked by the manager of a thea- 
tre to prepare a piece for his stage, and I did so, taking 
the plot of this novel. I called the comedy " Did He 
Steal It ?" But my friend the manager did not ap- 
prove of my attempt. My mind, at this time, was less 
attentive to such a matter than w^hen dear old George 
Bartley nearly crushed me by his criticism, so that I 
forget the reason given. I have little doubt but that 
the manager was right. That he intended to express 
a true opinion, and would have been glad to have 
taken the piece, had he thought it suitable, I am quite 
sure. 

I have sometimes wished to see, during my lifetime, 
a combined republication of those tales which are occu- 
pied with the fictitious county of Barsetshire. These 
would be "The Warden," " Barchester Towers," " Doc- 
tor Thorne," " Framley Parsonage," and " The Last 
Chronicle of Barset." But I have hitherto failed. The 
copyrights are in the hands of four different persons, 
including myself, and with one of the four I have 
not been able to prevail to act in concert with the 
others.* 

* Since this was written I have made arrangements for doing as I have 
wished, and the first volume of the series will now very shortly be pub- 
lished. 



Leaving the Post-office. 251 

In 1867 I made np my mind to take a step in life 
which was not unattended with peril, which many 
would call rash, and which, when taken, I should be 
sure at some period to regret. Tliis step was the resig- 
nation of my place in the Post-office. I have described 
how it was that I contrived to combine the performance 
of its duties with my other avocations in life. I got up 
always very early ; but even this did not suffice. I 
worked always on Sundays — as to which no scruple of 
religion made me unhappy — and not unfrequently I 
was driven to work at night. In the winter, when hunt- 
ing was going on, I had to keep myself very much on 
the alert. And during the London season, when I was 
generally two or three days of the week in town, I 
found the official work to be a burden. I had deter- 
mined some years previously, after due consideration 
with my wife, to abandon the Post-office when I had 
put by an income equal to the pension to which I should 
be entitled if I remained in the department till I was 
sixty. That I had now done, and I sighed for liberty. 

The exact time chosen, the autumn of 1867, was se- 
lected because I was then about to undertake other lit- 
erary work in editing a new magazine, of which I shall 
speak very shortly. But in" addition to these reasons 
there was another, which was, I think, at last the actu- 
ating cause. When Sir Powland Hill left the Post- 
office, and my brother-in-law, Mr. Tilley, became sec- 
retary in his place, I applied for the vacant office of 
under-secretary. Had I obtained this I should have 
given up my hunting, have given up much of my 
literary work — at any rate, would have edited no 
magazine — and would have returned to the habit of 



253 Autobiography of Anthony Trollojpe. 

my youth in going daily to the General Post-of- 
fice. There was very much against such a change in 
life. The increase of salary would not have amount- 
ed to above £400 a year, and I should have lost much 
more than that in literary remuneration. I should 
have felt bitterly the slavery of attendance at an of- 
fice from which I had then been exempt for five-and- 
twenty years. I should, too, have greatly missed the 
sport which I loved. But I was attached to the de- 
partment, had imbued myself with a thorough love of 
letters — I mean, the letters which are carried by the 
post — and was anxious for their welfare as though they 
were all my own. In short, I wished to continue the 
connection. I did not wish, moreover, that any young- 
er officer should again pass over my head. I believed 
that I had been a valuable public servant, and I will 
own to a feeling existing at that time that I had not al- 
together been well treated. I was probably wrong in 
this. I had been allowed to hunt, and to do as I 
pleased, and to say what I liked, and had in that way 
received my reward. I applied for the ofiice, but Mr. 
Scudamore was appointed to it. He, no doubt, was pos- 
sessed of gifts which I did not possess. He under- 
stood the manipulation of money and the use of figures, 
and was a great accountant. I think that I might have 
been more useful in regard to the labors and wages of 
the immense body of men employed by the Post-office. 
However, Mr. Scudamore was appointed ; and I made 
up my mind that I would fall back upon my old inten- 
tion, and leave the department. I think I allowed two 
years to pass before I took the step ; and the day on 
which I sent the letter was to me most melancholy. 



Leaving the Post-office. 253 

The rule of the service in regard to pensions is very 
just. A man shall serve till he is sixty before he is en- 
titled to a pension, unless his health fail him. At that 
age he is entitled to one sixtieth of his salary for every 
year he has served up to forty years. If his health do 
fail him so that he is unfit for further work before the 
age named, then he may go, with a pension amounting 
to one sixtieth for every year he has served. I could 
not say that my health had failed me, and therefore I 
went without any pension. I have since felt, occasion- 
ally, that it has been supposed that I left the Post-ofiice 
under pressure, because I attended to hunting and to my 
literary work rather than to postal matters. As it had 
for many years been my ambition to be a thoroughly 
good servant to the public, and to give to the public 
much more than I took in the shape of salary, this feel- 
ing has sometimes annoyed me. And as I am still a 
little sore on the subject, and as I would not have it 
imagined after my death that I had slighted the public 
service to which I belonged, I will venture here to give 
the reply w^hich was sent to the letter containing my 
resignation. 

General Post-office, October 9, 1867. 

"Sir, — I have received your letter of the 3d inst., in which you tender 
your resignation as Surveyor in the Post-office service, and state as your 
reason for this step that you have adopted another profession, the exigen- 
cies of which are so great as to make you feel you cannot give to the du- 
ties of the Post-office that amount of attention which you consider the 
Postmaster-general has a right to expect. 

" You have for many years ranked among the most conspicuous mem- 
bers of the Post-office, which, on several occasions, when you have been 
employed on large and difficult matters, has reaped much benefit from the 
great abilities which you have been able to place at its disposal ; and in 
mentioning this, I have been especially glad to record that, notwithstand- 



254 Autobiograjphy of Anthony Trollope, 

ing the many calls upon your time, you have never permitted your other 
avocations to interfere with your Post-office work, which has been faith- 
fully, and, indeed, energetically performed." (There was a touch of irony 
in this word "energetically," but still it did not displease me.) 

"In accepting your resignation, which he does with much regret, the 
Duke of Montrose desires me to convey to you his own sense of the value 
of your services, and to state how alive he is to the loss which will be sus- 
tained by the department in which you have long been an ornament, and 
where your place will with difficulty be replaced. 

(Signed) " J. Tillet." 

Eeaders will, no doubt, think that this is official flum- 
mery ; and so, in fact, it is. I do not at all imagine that 
I was an ornament to the Post-office, and have no doubt 
that the secretaries and assistant-secretaries very often 
would have been glad to be rid of me ; but the letter 
may be taken as evidence that I did not allow my liter- 
ary enterprises to interfere with my official work. A 
man who takes public money without earning it is to 
me so odious that I can find no pardon for him in my 
heart. I have known many such, and some who have 
craved the power to do so. IS'othing would annoy me 
more than to think that I should even be supposed to 
have been among the number. 

And so my connection was dissolved with the depart- 
ment to which I had applied the thirty-three best years 
of my life — I must not say devoted, for devotion im- 
plies an entire surrender, and I certainly had found time 
for other occupations. It is, however, absolutely true 
that during all those years I had thought very much 
more about the Post-office than I had of my literary 
work, and had given to it a more unflagging attention. 
Up to this time I had never been angry, never felt my- 
self injured or unappreciated in that my literary efforts 



Leaving the Post-office. 255 

were slighted. But I had suffered very much bitterness 
on that score in reference to the Post-office ; and I had 
suffered not only on my own personal behalf, but also 
and more bitterly when I could not promise to be done 
the things which I thought ought to be done for the 
benefit of others. That the public in little villages 
should be enabled to buy postage-stamps; that they 
should have their letters delivered free and at an early 
hour; that pillar letter-boxes should be pot up for them 
(of which accommodation in the streets and ways of 
England I was the originator, having, however, got the 
authority for the erection of the first at St. Heliers, in 
Jersey) ; that the letter-carriers and sorters should not 
be overworked; that they should be adequately paid, 
and liave some hours to themselves, especially on Sun- 
days ; above all, that they should be made to earn their 
wages ; and, latterly, that they should not be crushed by 
wdiat I thought to be the damnable system of so-called 
merit — these were the matters by which I was stirred to 
what the secretary was pleased to call energetic per- 
formance of my duties. How I loved, when I was con- 
tradicted — as I was very often and, no doubt, very prop- 
erly — to do instantly as I was bid, and then to prove 
that what I was doing was fatuous, dishonest, expensive, 
and impracticable ! And then there were feuds — such 
delicious feuds ! I was always an anti-Hillite, acknowl- 
edging, indeed, the great thing which Sir Rowland Hill 
had done for the country, but believing him to be entirely 
unfit to manage men or to arrange labor. It was a pleasure 
to me to differ from him on all occasions — and looking 
back now, I think that in all such differences I was right. 
Having so steeped myself, as it were, in postal waters, 



256 Aittohiogra^hy of Anthony Trollojpe. 

I could not go out from them without a regret. I won- 
der whether I did anything to improve the style of 
writing in official reports! I strove to do so gallantly, 
never being contented with the language of my own 
reports unless it seemed to have been so written as to 
be pleasant to be read. I took extreme delight in writ- 
ing them, not allowing myself to re-copy them, never 
liaving them re-copied by others, but sending them up 
with their original blots and erasures — if blots and eras- 
ures there were. It is hardly manly, I think, that a man 
should search after a fine neatness at the expense of so 
much waste labor ; or that he should not be able to exact 
from himself the necessity of writing words in the form 
ill which they should be read. If a copy be required, 
let it be taken afterwards — by hand or by machine, as 
may be. But the writer of a letter, if he wish his words 
to prevail with the reader, should send them out as 
written by himself, by his own hand, with his own marks, 
his own punctuation, correct or incorrect, with the evi- 
dence upon them that they have come out from his 
own mind. 

And so the cord was cut, and I was a free man to run 
about the world where I would. 

A little before the date of my resignation, Mr. James 
Yirtue, the printer and publisher, had asked me to edit 
a new magazine for him, and had offered me a salary of 
£1000 a year for the work, over and above what might be 
due to me for my own contributions. I had known some- 
thing of magazines, and did not believe that they were 
generally very lucrative. They were, I thought, useful 
to some publishers as bringing grist to the mill; but as 
Mr. Virtue's business was chiefly that of a printer, in 



Leaving the Post-office. 257 

which he was very successful, this consideration could 
hardly have had much weight with him. I very strong- 
ly advised him to abandon the project, pointing out to 
him that a large expenditure would be necessary to carry 
on the magazine in accordance with my views — that I 
could not be concerned in it on any other understand- 
ing, and that the chances of an adequate return to him 
of his money were very small. He came down to Wal- 
tham, listened to my arguments with great patience, and 
then told me that if I would not do the work he would 
find some other editor. 

• Upon this I consented to undertake the duty. My 
terms as to salary were those which he had himself pro- 
posed. The special stipulations which I demanded were : 
firstly, that I should put whatever I pleased into the 
magazine, or keep whatever I pleased out of it, without 
interference ; secondly, that I should from month to 
month give in to him a list of payments to be made to 
contributors, and that he should pay them, allowing me 
to fix the amounts ; and, thirdly, that the arrangement 
should remain in force, at any rate, for two years. To 
all this he made no objection ; and during the time that 
lie and I were thus bound together, he not only complied 
with these stipulations, but also with every suggestion 
respecting the magazine that I made to him. If the use 
of large capital, combined with wide liberality and ab- 
solute confidence on the part of the proprietor, and per- 
petual good-humor, would have produced success, our 
magazine certainly would have succeeded. 

In all such enterprises the name is the first great diffi- 
culty. There is the name which has a meaning and the 
name which has none — of which two the name that has 



258 Autobiography of Anthony Trollope. 

none is certainly the better, as it never belies itself. 
The Liberal may cease to be liberal, or The Fortnightly, 
alas ! to come out once a fortnight. But The Cornhill 
and The Argosy are under any set of circumstances as 
well adapted to these names as under any other. Then 
there is the proprietary^ name, or possibly the editorial 
name, which is only amiss because the publication may 
change hands. Blackwood's has, indeed, always remained 
Blackioood's, and Fraser'^s, though it has been bought 
and sold, still does not sound amiss. Mr. Virtue, fearing 
the too attractive qualities of his own name, wished the 
magazine to be called Anthony Trollojp^s. But to thi^ 
I objected eagerly. There were then about the town — 
still are about the town — two or three literary gentle- 
men, by whom to have had myself editored would have 
driven me an exile from my country. After much dis- 
cussion, we settled on St. PauVs as the name for our 
bantling — not as being in any way new, but as enabling 
it to fall easily into the ranks with many others. If we 
were to make ourselves in any way peculiar, it was not 
by our name that we were desirous of doing so. 

I do not think that we did make ourselves in any way 
peculiar — and yet there was a great struggle made. On 
the part of Uie proprietor, I may say that money was 
spent very freely. On my own part, I may declare that 
1 omitted nothing which I thought might tend to suc- 
cess. I read all manuscripts sent to me, and endeavored 
to judge impartiall}^ I succeeded in obtaining the ser- 
vices of an excellent literary corps. During the three 
years and a half of my editorship I was assisted by Mr. 
Goschen, Captain Brackenbury, Edward Dicey, Percy 
Fitzgerald, H. A. Layard, Allingham, Leslie Stephen, 



" St. FauVs Magazine^ 259 

Mrs. Lynn Linton, my brotlier, T. A. Trollope, and liis 
wife, Charles Lever, E. Arnold, Austin Dobson, K. A. 
Proctor, Lady Pollock, G. II. Lewes, C. Mackay, Hard- 
man (of the Times\ George Macdonald, W. R. Greg, 
Mrs. Oliphant, Sir Charles Trevelyan, Leoni Levi, Dut- 
ton Cook — and others, whose names would make the list 
too long. It might have been thought that with such 
aid the St. PauVs would have succeeded. I do not think 
that the failure — for it did fail — arose from bad editing. 
Perhaps too much editing might have been the fault. 
I was too anxious to be good, and did not enough think 
of what might be lucrative. 

It did fail, for it never paid its way. It reached, 
if I remember right, a circulation of nearly ten thousand 
— perhaps on one or two occasions may have gone be- 
yond that. But the enterprise had been set on foot on 
a system too expensive to be made lucrative by anything 
short of a very large circulation. Literary merit will hard- 
1}^ set a magazine afloat, though when afloat it will sustain 
it. Time is wanted — or the hubbub, and flurry, and ex- 
citement created by ubiquitous sesquipedalian advertise- 
ment. Merit and time together may be effective, but 
they must be backed by economy and patience. 

I think, upon the whole, that publishers themselves 
have been the best editors of magazines, when they 
have been able to give time and intelligence to the 
work, l^othing, certainly, has ever been done better 
than BlachiooocVs. The Cornhill, too, after Thackeray 
had left it and before Leslie Stephen had taken it, 
seemed to be in quite eflScient hands — those hands be- 
ing the hands of proprietor and publisher. The pro- 
prietor, at any rate, knows what he wants and what he 



260 Autobiography of Anthony Trollope. 

can afford, and is not so frequently tempted to fall into 
that worst of literary quicksands, the publishing of mat- 
ter not for the sake of the readers, but for that of the 
writer. I did not so sin very often, but often enough 
to feel that I was a coward. " My dear friend, my dear 
friend, this is trash 1" It is so hard to speak thus — but 
so necessary for an editor! "We all remember the 
thorn in his pillow of which Thackeray complained. 
Occasionally I know that I did give way on behalf of 
some literary aspirant whose work did not represent it- 
self to me as being good ; and as often as I did so, I 
broke my trust to those who employed me. Now, I 
think that such editors as Thackeray and myself — if I 
may for the moment be allowed to couple men so un- 
equal — will always be liable to commit such faults, but 
that the natures of publishers and proprietors will be 
less soft. 

Is'or do I know why the pages of a magazine should 
be considered to be open to any aspirant who thinks 
that he can write an article, or why the manager of a 
magazine should be doomed to read all that may be 
sent to him. The object of the proprietor is to produce 
a periodical that shall satisfy the public, which he may 
probably best do by securing the services of writers 
of acknowledged ability. 



Beverley. 261 



Chaptee XYI. 
beverley. 

Yeey early in life, very soon after I had become a 
clerk in St. Martin's-le-Grand, when I was utterly im-' 
pecunious and beginning to fall grievously into debt, I 
was asked by an uncle of mine, who was himself a clerk 
in the War Office, what destination I should like best for 
my future life. He probably meant to inquire whether 
I wished to live married or single, whether to remain 
in the Post-office or to leave it, whether I should prefer 
the town or the country. I replied that I should like 
to be a Member of Parliament. My uncle, who was 
given to sarcasm, rejoined that, as far as he knew, few 
clerks in the Post-office did become Members of Par- 
liament. I think it was the remembrance of this jeer 
which stirred me up to look for a seat as soon as I had 
made myself capable of holding one by leaving the 
public service. My uncle was dead, but if I could get 
a seat, the knowledge that I had done so might travel 
to that bourne from whence he was not likely to re- 
turn, and he might there feel that he had done me 
wrong. 

Independently of this, I have always thought that to 
sit in the British Parliament should be the highest ob- 
ject of ambition to every educated Englishman. I do 
not by this mean to suggest that every educated Eng- 



263 Autobiography of Anthony Trollojpe. 

lisliman should set before himself a seat in parliament 
as a probable or even a possible career; but that the 
man in parliament has reached a higher position than 
the man out — that to serve one's country without pay 
is the grandest work that a man can do — that of all 
studies the study of politics is the one in which a man 
may make himself most useful to his fellow-creatures 
— and that of all lives, public political lives are capable 
of the highest efforts. So thinking — though I was 
aware that iifty-three was too late an age at which to 
commence a new career — I resolved with much hesita- 
tion that I would make the attempt. 

Writing now, at an age beyond sixty, I can say that 
my political feelings and convictions have never under- 
gone any change. They are now what they became 
when I iirst began to have political feelings and con- 
victions. Nor do I find in myself any tendency to 
modify them, as I have found generally in men as they 
grow old. I consider myself to be an advanced, but 
still a conservative, Liberal, w^hich I regard not only as 
a possible but as a rational and consistent phase of po- 
litical existence. I can, I believe, in a very few words, 
make known my political theory; and as I am anxious 
that any who know aught of me should know that, I 
will endeavor to do so. 

It must, I think, be painful to all men to feel inferi- 
ority. It should, I think, be a matter of some pain to 
all men to feel superiority, unless when it has been won 
by their own efforts. We do not understand the opera- 
tions of Almighty wisdom, and are therefore unable to 
tell the causes of the terrible inequalities that we see — 
why some, why so many, should have so little to make 



Beverley, 263 

life enjoyable, so much to make it painful, while a few 
others, not through their own merit, have had gifts 
poured out to them from a full hand. We acknowledge 
the hand of God and his wisdom, but still we are struck 
with awe and horror at the misery of many of our 
brethren. We who have been born to the superior con- 
dition — for in this matter I consider myself to be 
standing on a platform with dukes and princes, and all 
others to whom plenty and education and liberty have 
been given — cannot, I think, look upon the inane, unin- 
tellectual, and tost-bound life of those who cannot even 
feed themselves sufficiently by their sweat, without 
some* feeling of injustice, some feeling of pain. 

This consciousness of wrong has induced in many 
enthusiastic but unbalanced minds a desire to set all 
things right by a proclaimed equality. In their efforts 
such men have shown how powerless they are in oppos- 
ing the ordinances of the Creator. For the mind of 
the thinker and the student is driven to admit, though 
it be awe-struck by apparent injustice, that this ine- 
quality is the w^ork of God. Make all men equal to- 
day, and God has so created them that they shall be all 
unequal to-morrow. Tlie so-called Conservative, the 
conscientious, philanthropic Conservative, seeing this, 
and being surely convinced that such inequalities are of 
divine origin, tells himself that it is his duty to pre- 
serve them. He thinks that the preservation of the 
welfare of the world depends on the maintenance of 
those distances between the prince and the peasant by 
which he finds himself to be surrounded ; and perhaps 
I may add, that the duty is not unpleasant, as he feels 
himself to be one of the princes. 



264 Autobiography of Anthony Trolloj^e. 

Eut this man, though he sees something, and sees that 
very clearly, sees only a little. The divine inequality 
is apparent to him, but not the equally divine diminu- 
tion of that inequality. That such diminution is taking 
place on all sides is apparent enough ; but it is apparent 
to him as an evil, the consummation of which it is his 
duty to retard. He cannot prevent it ; and therefore 
the society to which he belongs is, in his eyes, retro- 
grading. He will even, at times, assist it ; and will do 
so conscientiously, feeling that, under the gentle press- 
ure supplied by him, and with the drags and holdfasts 
which he may add, the movement would be slower than 
it would become if subjected to his proclaimed and ab- 
solute opponents. Such, I think, are Conservatives; 
and I speak of men who, with the fear of God before 
their eyes and the love of their neighbors warm in their 
hearts, endeavor to do their duty to the best of their 
ability. 

Using the term which is now common, and which 
will be best understood, I will endeavor to explain how 
the equally conscientious Liberal is opposed to the Con- 
servative. He is equally aware that these distances are 
of divine origin, equally averse to any sudden disrup- 
tion of society in quest of some Utopian blessedness ; 
but he is alive to the fact that these distances are day 
by day becoming less, and he regards this continual 
diminution as a series of steps towards that human mil- 
lennium of which he dreams. He is even willing to 
help the many to ascend the ladder a little, though he 
knows, as they come up towards him, he must go down 
to meet them. What is really in his mind is — I will 
not say equality, for the word is offensive, and presents 



Beverley, 265 

to the imaginations of men ideas of communism, of ruin, 
and insane democracy, but — a tendency towards equal- 
ity. In following that, however, lie knows that he must 
be hemmed in by safeguards, lest he be tempted to 
travel too quickly ; and therefore he is glad to be accom- 
panied on his way by the repressive action of a Conser- 
vative opponent. Holding such views, I tliink I am 
guilty of no absurdity in calling myself an advanced 
Conservative -Liberal. A man who entertains in his 
mind any political doctrine, except as a means of im- 
proving the condition of his fellows, I regard as a polit- 
ical intriguer, a charlatan, and a conjurer — as one who 
thinks that, by a certain amount of wary wire-pulling, 
he may raise himself in the estimation of the world. 

I am aware that this theory of politics will seem to 
many to be stilted, overstrained, and, as the Americans 
would say, high-faluten. Many will declare that the 
majority even of those who call themselves politicians 
— perhaps even of those who take an active part in pol- 
itics — are stirred by no such feelings as these, and ac- 
knowledge no such motives. Men become Tories or 
Whigs, Liberals or Conservatives, partly by education — 
following their fathers — partly by chance, partly as 
openings come, partly in accordance with the bent of 
their minds, but still without any far-fetched reasonings 
as to distances and the diminution of distances, l^o 
doubt it is so ; and in the battle of politics, as it goes, 
men are led further and further away from first causes, 
till at last a measure is opposed by one simply because 
it is advocated by another, and Members of Parliament 
swarm into lobbies, following the dictation of their 
leaders, and not their own individual judgments. But 

12 



266 A^Udbiograj>hy of Anthony Trollope. 

the principle is at work throughout. To many, though 
hardlj acknowledged, it is still apparent. On almost all 
it has its effect; though there are the intriguers, the 
clever conjurers, to whom politics is simply such a game 
as is billiards or rackets, only played with greater re- 
sults. To the minds that create and lead and sway po- 
litical opinion, some such theory is, I think, ever present. 

The truth of all this I had long since taken home to 
myself. I had now been thinking of it for thirty years, 
and had never doubted. But I had always been aware 
of a certain visionary weakness about myself in regard 
to politics. A man, to be useful in Parliament, must 
be able to confine himself and conform himself, to be 
satisfied with doing a little bit of a little thing at a 
time. He must patiently get up everything connected 
with the duty on mushrooms, and then be satisfied with 
himself when at last he has induced a Chancellor of the 
Exchequer to say that he will consider the impost at 
the first opportunity. He must be content to be beaten 
six times in order that, on a seventh, his work may be 
found to be of assistance to some one else. He must 
remember that he is one out of 650, and be content 
with l-650th part of the attention of the nation. If he 
have grand ideas, he must keep them to himself, unless 
by chance he can work his way up to the top of the 
tree. In short, he must be a practical man. Now I 
knew that in politics I could never become a practical 
man. I should never be satisfied with a soft word from 
the Chancellor of the Exchequer, but would always be 
flinging my over-taxed catchup in his face. 

Nor did it seem to me to be possible that I should 
ever become a good speaker. I had no special gifts 



Beverley. 367 

that way, and had not studied the art early enough in 
life to overcome natural difficulties. I had found that, 
with infinite labor, I could learn a few sentences by 
heart, and deliver them, monotonously, indeed, but 
clearly. Or, again, if there were something special to 
be said, I could say it in a commonplace fashion, but 
always as though I were in a hurry, and with the fear 
before me of being thought to be prolix. But I had no 
power of combining, as a public speaker should always 
do, that which I had studied with that which occurred 
to me at the moment. It must be all lesson, which I 
found to be best ; or else all impromptu, which was very 
bad indeed, unless I had something special on my mind. 
I was thus aware that I could do no good by going into 
parliament ; that the time for it, if there could have 
been a time, had gone by. But still I had an almost 
insane desire to sit there, and be able to assure myself 
that my uncle's scorn had not been deserved. 

In 1867 it had been suggested to me that, in the event 
of a dissolution, I should stand for one division of the 
County of Essex ; and I had promised that I would do 
so, though the promise at that time was as rash a one as 
a man could make. I was instigated to tliis by the late 
Charles Buxton, a man whom I greatly loved, and who 
was very anxious that the county for which his brother 
had sat, and with which the family were connected, 
should be relieved from what he regarded as the thral- 
dom of Toryism. But there was no dissolution then. 
Mr. Disraeli passed his Eeform Bill, by the help of the 
Liberal member for Newark, and the summoning of a 
new parliament was postponed till the next year. By 
this new Reform Bill Essex was portioned out into 



268 Autobiography of Anthony Trollope, 

three instead of two electoral divisions, one of whicli — 
that adjacent to London — would, it was thought, be al- 
together Liberal. After the promise which I had given, 
the performance of which would have cost me a large 
sum of money absolutely in vain, it was felt by some 
that I should be selected as one of the candidates for 
the new division, and as such I was proposed by Mr. 
Charles Buxton. But another gentleman, who would 
have been bound by previous pledges to support me, 
was put forward, by what I believe to have been the de- 
feating interest, and I had to give way. At the election 
this gentleman, with another Liberal, who had often 
stood for the county, were returned without a contest. 
Alas ! alas ! They were both unseated at the next elec- 
tion, when the great Conservative reaction took place. 

In the spring of 1868 I was sent to the United States 
on a postal mission, of which I will speak presently. 
While I was absent the dissolution took place. On my 
return I was somewhat too late to look out for a seat, 
but I had friends who knew the weakness of my ambi- 
tion ; and it was not likely, therefore, that I should es- 
cape the peril of being put forward for some impossible 
borough as to which the Liberal party would not choose 
that it should go to the Conservatives without a struggle. 
At last, after one or two others, Beverley was proposed 
to me, and to Beverley I went. 

I must, however, exculpate the gentleman who acted 
as my agent from undue persuasion exercised towards 
me. He w^as a man w^io thoroughly understood par- 
liament, having sat there himself — and he sits there now 
at this moment. He understood Yorkshire — or, at least, 
the East Biding of Yorkshire, in which Beverley is sit- 



Beverley. 269 

iiated — certainly better than any one alive. He under- 
stood all the mysteries of canvassing, and he knew well 
the traditions, the condition, and the prospect of the 
Liberal party. I will not give his name, but they who 
knew Yorkshire in 1868 will not be at a loss to find it. 
" So," said he, " you are going to stand for Beverley ?" 
I replied gravely that I was thinking of doing so. " Yon 
don't expect to get in ?" he said. Again I was grave. 
I would not, I said, be sanguine, but nevertheless I was 
disposed to hope for the best. " Oh, no !" continned he, 
with good-humored raillery, " you won't get in. I don't 
suppose you really expect it. But there is a fine career 
open to you. You w^ill spend £1000, and lose the elec- 
tion. Then you will petition, and spend another £1000. 
You will throw out the elected members. There will 
be a commission, and the borough will be disfranchised. 
For a beginner, such as you are, that will be a great suc- 
cess." And yet, in the teeth of this, from a man who 
knew all about it, I persisted in going to Beverley ! 

The borough, which returned two members, had long 
been represented by Sir Henry Edwards, of whom, I 
think, I am justified in saying that he had contracted a 
close intimacy with it for the sake of the seat. There 
had been many contests, many petitions, many void 
elections, many members, but, through it all. Sir Henry 
liad kept his seat, if not with permanency, yet with a 
fixity of tenure next door to permanence. I fancy that, 
with a little management between the parties, the bor- 
ough might at this time have returned a member of 
each color quietly ; but there were spirits there who 
did not love political quietude, and it w^as at last decid- 
ed that there should be two Liberal and two Conserva- 



270 Autobiography of Anthony Trollope. 

tive candidates. Sir Henry was joined by a young man 
of fortune in quest of a seat, and I was grouped with 
Mr. Maxwell, the eldest son of Lord Herries, a Scotch 
Koman Catholic peer who lives in the neighborhood. 

When the time came I went down to canvass, and 
spent, I think, the most wretched fortnight of my man- 
hood. In the first place, I was subject to a bitter tyr- 
anny from grinding, vulgar tyrants. They were doing 
what they could, or said that they were doing so, to se- 
cure me a seat in Parliament, and I was to be in their 
hands for, at any rate, the period of my candidature. On 
one day both of us, Mr. Maxwell and I, wanted to go 
out hunting. We proposed to ourselves but the one 
holiday during this period of intense labor ; but I was 
assured, as was he also, by a publican who was working 
for us, that if we committed such a crime he and all 
Beverley would desert us. From morning to evening, 
every day, I was taken round the lanes and by-ways of 
that uninteresting town, canvassing every voter, exposed 
to the rain, up to my knees in slush, and utterly unable 
to assume that air of triumphant joy with which a jolly, 
successful candidate should be invested. At night, ev- 
ery night, I had to speak somewhere — which was bad ; 
and to listen to the speaking of others — which was much 
worse. When, on one Sunday, I proposed to go to the 
Minster Church, I was told that was quite useless, as 
the Church party were all certain to support Sir Henry ! 
" Indeed," said the publican, my tyrant, ^' he goes there 
in a kind of official profession, and you had better not 
allow yourself to be seen in the same place." So I 
stayed away and omitted my prayers. No Church of 
England church in Beverley would on such an occasion 



BeoerUy. 271 

have welcomed a Liberal candidate. I felt myself to be 
a kind of pariah in the borough, to whom was opposed 
all that was pretty, and all that was nice, and all that 
was — ostensibly — good. 

But, perhaps, my strongest sense of discomfort arose 
from the conviction that my political ideas were all leath- 
er and prunella to the men whose votes I was soliciting. 
They cared nothing for my doctrines, and could not be 
made to understand that I should have any. I had been 
brought to Beverley either to beat Sir Henry Edwards 
— which, however, no one probably thought to be feasi- 
ble — or to cause him the greatest possible amount of 
trouble, inconvenience, and expense. There were, in- 
deed two points on which a portion of my wished-for sup- 
porters seemed to have opinions, and on both these two 
points I was driven by my opinions to oppose them. 
Some were anxious for the ballot — which had not then 
become law — and some desired the Permissive Bill. I 
hated, and do hate, both these measures, thinking it to 
be unworthy of a great people to free itself from the 
evil results of vicious conduct by unmanly restraints. 
Undue influence on voters is a great evil, from which 
this country had already done much to emancipate itself 
by extended electoral divisions and by an increase of 
independent feeling. These, I thought, and not secret 
voting, were the weapons by which electoral intim- 
idation should be overcome. And as for drink, I be- 
lieve in no parliamentary restraint ; but I do believe in 
the gradual effect of moral teaching and education. 
But a Liberal, to do any good at Beverley, should 
have been able to swallow such gnats as those. I would 
swallow nothing, and was altogether the wrong man. 



272 Autobiography of Anthony Trollope. 

I knew, from the commencement of my candidature, 
how it would be. Of course that well-trained gentle- 
man who condescended to act as my agent had under- 
stood the case, and I ought to have taken his thoroughly 
kind advice. He had seen it all, and had told liimself 
that it was wTong that one so innocent in such ways as 
I, so utterly unable to fight such a battle, should be car- 
ried down into Yorkshire merely to spend money and 
to be annoyed. He could not have said more than he 
did say, and I suffered for my obstinacy. Of course, I 
was not elected. Sir Henry Edwards and his comrade 
became members for Beverley, and I was at the bottom 
of the poll. I paid £400 for my expenses, and then re- 
turned to London. 

My friendly agent in his raillery had, of course, exag- 
gerated the cost. He had, when I arrived at Beverley, 
asked me for a check for £400, and told me that that 
sura would suffice. It did suffice. How it came to pass 
that exactly that sum should be required I never knew, 
but such was the case. Then there came a petition — 
not from me, but from the town. The inquiry was 
made, the two gentlemen were unseated, the borough 
was disfranchised, Sir Henry Edwards was put on his 
trial for some kind of parliamentary offence, and was 
acquitted. In this way Beverley's privilege as a bor- 
ough and my parliamentary ambition were brought to 
an end at the same time. 

When I knew the result I did not altogether regret 
it. It may be that Beverley might have been brought 
to political confusion and Sir Henry Edwards relegated 
to private life without the expenditure of my hard- 
earned money, and without that fortnight of misery ; 



Beverley. 273 

but connecting the things together, as it was natural 
that 1 should do, I did flatter myself tliat I had done 
some good. It had seemed to me that nothing could 
be worse, nothing more unpatriotic, nothing more abso- 
lutely opposed to the system of representative govern- 
ment, than the time-honored practices of the borough 
of Beverley. It had come to pass that political clean- 
liness was odious to the citizens. There was something 
grand in the scorn with which a leading Liberal there 
turned up his nose at me when I told him that there 
should be no bribery, no treating, not even a pot of beer 
on one side. It was a matter for study to see how at 
Beverley politics were appreciated because they might 
subserve electoral purposes, and how little it was un- 
derstood that electoral purposes, which are in themselves 
a nuisance, should be endured in order that they may 
subserve politics. And then the time, the money, the 
mental energy, which had been expended in making the 
borough a secure seat for a gentleman who had realized 
the idea that it would become him to be a Member of 
Parliament! This use of the borough seemed to be 
realized and approved in the borough generally. The 
inhabitants had taught themselves to think that it was 
for such purposes that boroughs were intended ! To 
have assisted in putting an end to this, even in one town, 
was to a certain extent a satisfaction. 

12^ 



274 Autobiography of Anthony TroUojpe. 



Chapter XYII. 

THE AMERICAN POSTAL TREATY. —THE QUESTION OF 
COPYRIGHT WITH AMERICA.— FOUR MORE NOVELS. 

In the spring of 1868 — before the affair of Beverley, 
which, as being the first direct result of my resignation 
of ofiice, has been brought in a little out of its turn — I 
was requested to go over to the United States and make 
a postal treaty at Washington. This, as I had left the 
service, I regarded as a compliment, and of course I 
went. It was my third visit to America, and I have 
made two since. As far as the Post-office work was 
concerned, it was very far from being agreeable. I 
found myself located at Washington, a place I do not 
love, and was harassed by delays, annoyed by incompe- 
tence, and opposed by what I felt to be personal and 
not national views. I had to deal with two men — with 
one who was a working officer of the American Post- 
office, than whom I have never met a more zealous, or, 
as far as I could judge, a more honest, public servant. 
He had his views and I had mine, each of us having at 
heart the welfare of the service in regard to his own 
country — each of us also having certain orders wliich 
we were bound to obey. But the other gentleman, who 
was in rank the superior — whose executive position was 
dependent on his official status, as is the case with our 
own ministers — did not recommend himself to me equal- 



The Question of Copyright with America. 276 

Ij. He would make appointments with me and then 
not keep them, which at List offended me so grievously 
that I declared at the Washington Post-office that if 
this treatment were continued, I would write home to 
say that any further action on my part was impossible. 
I think I should have done so had it not occurred to 
me that I might in this way serve his purpose rather 
than my own, or the purposes of those who had sent 
me. The treaty, however, was at last made — the pur- 
port of which was, that everything possible should be 
done, at a heavy expenditure on the part of England, to 
expedite the mails from England to America, and that 
nothing should be done by America to expedite the 
mails from thence to us. The expedition I believe to 
be now equal both ways; but it could not be main- 
tained as it is without the payment of a heavy subsidy 
from Great Britain, whereas no subsidy is paid by the 
States.* 

I had also a commission from the Foreign Office, for 
whicli I had asked, to make an effort on behalf of an 
international copyright between the United States and 
Great Britain — the want of which is the one great im- 
pediment to pecuniary success which still stands in the 
way of successful English autliors. I cannot say that 
I have never had a shilling of American money on be- 
half of reprints of my work ; but I have been conscious 
of no such payment. Having found many years ago — 
in 1861, when I made a struggle on the subject, being 

* This was a state of things which may probably have appeared to 
American politicians to be exactly that which they should try to obtain. 
The whole arrangement has again been altered since the time of which I 
have spoken. 



276 Autobiography of Anthony Trollope. 

then in the States, the details of which are sufficiently 
amusing* — that I could not myself succeed in dealing 
with American booksellers, I have sold all foreign right 
to the English publishers ; and though I do not know 
that I have raised my price against them on that score, 
I may in this way have had some indirect advantage 
from the American market. But I do know that what 
the publishers have received here is very trifling. I 
doubt whetlier Messrs. Chapman & Hall, my present 
publishers, get for early sheets sent to the States as 
much as five per cent, on the price they pay me for my 
manuscript. But the American readers are more nu- 
merous than the English, and, taking them all through, 
are probably more wealthy. If I can get £1000 for a 
book here (exclusive of their market), I ought to be 
able to get as much there. If a man supply 600 cus- 
tomers with shoes in place of 300, there is no ques- 
tion as to such result. Why not, then, if I can supply 
60,000 readers instead of 30,000? 

I fancied that I knew that the opposition to an in- 
ternational copyright was by no means an American 
feelinof, but was confined to the bosoms of a few inter- 

* In answer to a question from tnyself, a certain American publisher — 
he who usually reprinted my works — promised me that if any other 
American publisher republished my work on " America" before he had done 
so, he would not bring out a competing edition, though there would be no 
law to hinder him. I then entered into an agreement with another Amer- 
ican publisher, stipulating to supply him with early sheets ; and he stip- 
ulating to supply me a certain royalty on his sales, and to supply me with 
accounts half-yearly. I sent the sheets with energetic punctuality, and 
the work was brought out with equal energy and precision— by my old 
Americaa publishers. The gentleman who made the promise had not 
broken his word. No other American edition had come out before his. 
I never got any account, and, of course, never received a dollar. 



The Question of Cojpyright with America. 277 

ested Americans. All that I did and heard in refer- 
ence to the subject on this further visit — and having a 
certain authority from the British Secretary of State 
with me I could hear and do something — altogether 
confirmed me in this view. I have no doubt that if I 
could poll American readers, or American senators — or 
even American representatives, if the polling could be 
unbiassed — or American booksellers,* that an assent to 
an international copyright would be the result. The 
state of things as it is is crushing to American authors, 
as the publishers will not pay them on a liberal scale, 
knowing tliat they can supply their customers with 
modern English literature without paying for it. The 
English amount of production so much exceeds the 
American, that the rate at which the former can be 
published rules the market. It is equally injurious to 
American booksellers — -except to two or three of the 
greatest houses. No small man can now acquire the 
exclusive right of printing and selling an English book. 
If such a one attempt it, the work is printed instantly 
by one of the leviathans, who alone are the gainers. 
The argument of course is, that the American readers 
are the gainers — that as they can get for nothing the 
use of certain property, they would be cutting their 
own throats were they to pass a law debarring them- 
selves from the power of such appropriation. In this 
argument all idea of honesty is thrown to the winds. 
It is not that they do not approve of a system of copy- 
right — as many great men have disapproved — for their 
own law of copyright is as stringent as is ours. A bold 

* I might also say American publishers, if I might count them by the 
number of heads, and not by the amount of work done by the firms. 



278 Autdbiograjphy of Anthony Trollojpe. 

assertion is made that they like to appropriate the goods 
of other people ; and that, as in this ease they can do 
so with impunity, they will continue to do so. But the 
argument, as far as I have been able to judge, comes 
not from the people, but from the bookselling levia- 
thans, and from those politicians whom the leviathans 
are able to attach to their interests. The ordinary 
American purchaser is not much affected by slight va- 
riations in price. He is, at any rate, too high-hearted 
to be affected by the prospect of such variation. It is 
the man who w^ants to make money, not he who fears 
that he may be called upon to spend it, who controls 
such matters as this in the United States. It is the 
large speculator who becomes powerful in the lobbies 
of the House, and understands how wise it may be to 
incur a great expenditure either in the creation of a 
great business, or in protecting that which he has cre- 
ated from competition. Nothing was done in 1868 — 
and nothing has been done since (up to 1876). A 
royal commission on the law of copyright is now about 
to sit in this country, of which I have consented to be 
a member; and the question must then be handled, 
though nothing done by a royal commission here can 
affect American legislators. But I do believe that if 
the measure be consistently and judiciously urged, the 
enemies to it in the States will gradually be overcome. 
Some years since we had some quasi private meetings, 
mider the presidency of Lord Stanhope, in Mr. John 
Murray's dining-room, on the subject of international 
copyright. At one of these I discussed this matter of 
American international copyright with Charles Dickens, 
who strongly declared his conviction that nothing would 



The Question of Copyright with America. 279 

induce an American to give up the power he possesses 
of pirating British literature. But he was a man who, 
seeing clearly what was before him, would not realize 
the possibility of shifting views. Because in this mat- 
ter the American decision had been, according to his 
thinking, dishonest, therefore no other than dishonest 
decision was to be expected from Americans. Against 
tliat idea I protested, and now protest. American dis- 
honesty is rampant; but it is rampant only among a 
few. It is the great misfortune of the community that 
those few have been able to dominate so large a por- 
tion of the population among which all men can vote, 
but so few can understand for what they are voting. 

Since this was written the commission on the law of 
copyright has sat and made its report. With the great 
body of it I agree, and could serve no reader by allud- 
ing here at length to matters which are discussed there. 
But in regard to this question of international copy- 
right with the United States, I think that we were in- 
correct in the expression of an opinion tliat fair jus- 
tice, or justice approaching to fairness, is now done by 
American publishers to English authors by payments 
made by them for early sheets. I have just found that 
£20 was paid to my publisher in England for the use 
of the early sheets of a novel for w^hich I received 
£1600 in England. When asked wliy he accepted so 
little, he assured me that the firm with whom he dealt 
would not give more. " Why not go to another firm ?" 
I asked. No other firm would give a dollar, because 
no other firm would care to run counter to that e'reat 
firm wliich had assumed to itself the right of publish- 
ing my books. I soon after received a copy of my own 



280 Autobiography of Anthony Trollojye. 

novel in the American form, and found that it was 
published for T^cZ. That a great sale was expected can 
be argued from the fact that without a great sale the 
paper and printing necessary for the republication of a 
three-volume novel could not be supplied. Many thou- 
sand copies must have been sold. But from these the 
author received not one shilling. I need liardly point 
out that the sum of £20 would not do more than com- 
pensate the publisher for his trouble in making the bar- 
gain. The publisher here, no doubt, might have refused 
to supply the early sheets, but he had no means of ex- 
acting a higher price than that offered. I mention the 
circumstance here because it has been boasted, on be- 
half of the American publishers, that though there is 
no international copyright, they deal so liberally with 
English authors as to make it unnecessary that the Eng- 
lish author should be so protected. With the fact of 
the £20 just brought to my knowledge, and with the 
copy of my book published at l^d. now in my hands, I 
feel that an international copyright is very necessary 
for my protection. 

They among Englishmen who best love and most ad- 
mire the United States, have felt themselves tempted 
to use the strongest language in denouncing the sins of 
Americans. Who can but love their personal generosity, . 
their active and far-seeking philanthropy, their love of 
education, their hatred of ignorance, the general convic- 
tion in the minds of all of them that a man should be 
enabled to walk upright, fearing no one, and conscious 
that he is responsible for his own actions ? In what 
country have grander efforts been made by private mu- 
nificence to relieve the sufferings of humanity ? Where 



The Question of Copyright with America. 281 

can the English trav^eller find any more anxious to as- 
sist him than the normal American, when once the 
American shall have found the Englishman to be nei- 
ther sullen nor fastidious ? Who, lastly, is so much an 
object of heart-felt admiration of the American man 
and the American woman as the well-mannered and 
well-educated Englishwoman or Englishman? These 
are the ideas which I say spring uppermost in the minds 
of the unprejudiced English traveller as he makes ac- 
quaintance with these near relatives. Then he becomes 
cognizant of their official doings, of their politics, of 
their municipal scandals, of their great ring-robberies, 
of their lobbyings and briberies, and the infinite base- 
ness of their public life. There, at the top of evei'y- 
thing, he finds the very men who are the least fit to oc- 
cupy high places. American public dishonesty is so 
glaring that the very friends he has made in the coun- 
try are not slow to acknowledge it — speaking of public 
life as a thing apart from their own existence, as a state 
of dirt in which it would be an insult to suppose that 
they are concerned ! In the midst of it all the stranger, 
who sees so much that he hates and so much that he 
loves, hardly knows how to express himself. 

'' It is not enough that you are personally clean," he 
says, with what energy and courage he can command — 
" not enough though the clean outnumber the foul as 
greatly as those gifted with eyesight outnumber the 
blind, if you that can see allow the blind to lead you. 
It is not by the private lives of the millions that the 
outside world will judge you, but by the public career 
of those units whose venality is allowed to debase the 
name of your country. There never was plainer proof 



283 Autobiography of Anthony Trollojpe, 

given than is given here, that it is the duty of every 
honest citizen to look after the honor of his state." 

Personally, I have to own that I have met Ameri- 
cans — men, but more frequently women — who have in 
all respects come up to what my ideas of what men and 
women should be : energetic, having opinions of their 
own, quick in speech, with some dash of sarcasm at 
their command, always intelligent, sweet to look at (I 
speak of the women), fond of pleasure, and each with 
a personality of his or her own wliich makes no effort 
necessary on my own part in remembering the differ- 
ence between Mrs. Walker and Mrs. Green, or between 
Mr. Smith and Mr. Johnson. They have faults. They 
are self-conscious, and are too prone to prove by ill-con- 
cealed struggles that they are as good as you — whereas 
you, perhaps, have been long acknowledging to yourself 
that they are much better. And there is sometimes a 
pretence at personal dignity among those who think 
themselves to have risen high in the w^orld, which is de- 
liciously ludicrous. I remember two old gentlemen* the 
owners of names which stand deservedly high in public 
estimation, whose deportment at a public funeral turned 
the occasion into one for irresistible comedy. They 
are suspicious at first, and fearful of themselves. They 
lack that simplicity of manners which w^ith us has be- 
come a habit from our childhood. But they are never 
fools, and I think that they are seldom ill-natured. 

There is a woman, of whom not to speak in a work 
purporting to be a memoir of my own life would be to 
omit all allusion to one of the chief pleasures which has 
graced my later years. In the last fifteen years she has 
been, out of my family, my most chosen friend. She is 



Four More Novels. 283 

a ray of light to me, from which I can always strike a 
spark by thinking of her. I do not know that I should 
please her or do any good by naming her. But not to 
allude to her in these pages would amount almost to a 
falsehood. I could not write truly of myself without 
saying that such a friend had been vouchsafed to me. 
I trust she may live to read the words I have now writ- 
ten, and to wipe away a tear as she thinks of my feel- 
ing while I write them. 

I was absent on this occasion something over three 
months, and on my return I went back with energy to 
my work at the St. PaioTs Magazine. The first novel 
in it from my own pen was called " Phineas Finn," in 
which I commenced a series of semi-political tales. As 
I was debarred from expressing my opinions in the 
House of Commons, I took this method of declaring 
myself. And as I could not take my seat on those 
benches where I might possibly have been shone upon 
by the Speaker's eye, I had humbly to crave his per- 
mission for a seat in the gallery, so that I. might thus 
become conversant with the ways and doings of the 
House in which some of my scenes were to be placed. 
The Speaker was very gracious, and gave me a running 
order for, I think, a couple of months. It was enough, 
at any rate, to enable me often to be very tired, and, as 
I have been assured by members, to talk of the proceed- 
ings almost as well as though Fortune had enabled me 
to fall asleep within the House itself. 

In writing " Phineas Finn," and also some other 
novels which followed it, I was conscious that I could 
not make a tale pleasing chiefly, or perhaps in any part, 
by politics. If I write politics for my own sake, I must 



284 Autobiography of Anthony Trollojpe, 

put in love and intrigue, social incidents, with perhaps 
a dash of sport, for the benefit of my readers. In this 
way I think I made my political hero interesting. It 
was certainly a blunder to take him from Ireland — into 
which I was led by the circumstance that I created the 
scheme of the book during a visit to Ireland. There 
was nothing to be gained by the peculiarity, and there 
was an added difficulty in obtaining sympathy and af- 
fection for a politician belonging to a national] t}^ whose 
politics are not respected in England. But in spite of 
this Phineas succeeded. It was not a brilliant success, 
because men and women not conversant with political 
matters could not care much for a hero who spent so 
much of his time either in the House of Commons or 
in a public office. But the men who would have lived 
with Phineas Finn read the book, and the women w^ho 
would have lived with Lady Laura Standish read it also. 
As this was what I had intended, I was contented. It 
is all fairly good except the ending, as to which till I 
got to it I made no provision. As I fully intended to 
bring my hero again into the world, I was wrong to 
marry him to a simple, pretty Irish girl, who could only 
be felt as an encumbrance on such return. When he 
did return I had no alternative but to kill the simple, 
pretty Irish girl, which was an unpleasant and awkward 
necessity. 

In writing "Phineas Finn" I had constantly before 
me the necessity of progression in character — of marking 
the changes in men and women which would naturally 
be produced by the lapse of years. In most novels the 
writer can have no such duty, as the period occupied is 
not long enough to allow of the change of which I speak. 



Four More Novels, 285 

111 ^'Ivanhoe," all the incidents of which are included 
in less than a month, the characters should be, as they 
are, consistent throughout. Novelists who have under- 
taken to write the life of a hero or heroine have gener- 
ally considered their work completed at the interesting 
period of marriage, and have contented themselves with 
the advance in taste and manners which are common 
to all boys and girls as they become men and women. 
Fielding, no doubt, did more than this in " Tom Jones," 
which is one of the greatest novels in the English lan- 
guage, for there he has shown how a noble and sanguine 
nature may fall away under temptation and be again 
strengthened and made to stand upright. But I do not 
think that novelists have often set before themselves 
the state of progressive change — nor should I have done 
it, had I not found myself so frequently allured back to 
my old friends. So much of my inner life was passed 
in their company, that I was continually asking myself 
how this woman would act when this or that event had 
passed over her head, or how that man would carry him- 
self when his youth had become manhood, or his man- 
hood declined to old age. It was in regard to the old 
Duke of Omnium, of his nephew and heir, and of his 
heir's wife. Lady Glencora, that I was anxious to carry 
out this idea ; but others added themselves to my mind 
as I went on, and I got round me a circle of persons as 
to whom I knew not only their present characters, but 
how those characters w^ere to be affected by years and 
circumstances. The happy, motherly life of Violet Ef- 
fingham, which was due to the girl's honest, but long- 
restrained love ; the tragic misery of Lady Laura, which 
was equally due to the sale she made of herself in her 



286 Autobiography of Anthony Trollope, 

wretched marriage; and the long suffering but final 
success of the hero, of which he had desei'ved the first 
by his vanity, and the last by his constant honesty, had 
been foreshadowed to me from the first. As to the in- 
cidents of the story, the circumstances by which these 
personages were to be effected, I knew nothing. Tliey 
were created for the most part as tliey were described. 
I never could arrange a set of events before me. But 
the evil and the good of my puppets, and how the evil 
would always lead to evil, and the good produce good — 
that .was clear to me as the stars on a summer night. 

Lady Laura Stan dish is the best character in " Phineas 
Finn" and its sequel "Phineas Kedux" — of which I 
will speak here together. They are, in fact, but one 
novel, though they were brought out at a considerable 
interval of time, and in different form. The first was 
commenced in the St. PaiiVs Magazine in 1867, and 
the other was brought out in the Graphic in 1873. In 
this there was much bad arrangement, as I had no right 
to expect that novel-readers would remember the char- 
acters of a story after an interval of six years, or that 
any little interest which might have been taken in the 
career of my hero could then have been renewed. I 
do not know that such interest was renewed. But I 
found that the sequel enjoyed the same popularity as 
the former part, and among the same class of readers. 
Pliineas, and Lady Laura, and Lady Chiltern — as Yiolet 
had become — and the old duke — whom I killed grace- 
fully, and the new duke, and the young duchess, either 
kept their old friends or made new friends for them- 
selves. " Phineas Finn," I certainly think, was success- 
ful from first to last. I am aware, however, that there 



Four More Novels. 287 

was nothing in it to touch the heart like the abasement 
of Lady Mason when confessing her guilt to her old 
lover, or any approach in delicacy of delineation to the 
character of Mr. Crawley. 

" Phineas Finn," the first part of the story, was com- 
pleted in May, 1867. In June and July I wrote " Linda 
Tressel" for Blackwood's Magazine, of which I have 
already spoken. In September and October I wrote a 
short novel, called "The Golden Lion of Granpere," 
which was intended also for Blackwood — with a view 
of being published anonymously ; but Mr. Blackwood 
did not find the arrangement to be profitable, and the 
story remained on my hands, unread and unthought of, 
for a few years. It appeared subsequently in Good 
Words. It was written on the model of " JSfina Balatka " 
and "Linda Tressel," but is very inferior to either of 
them. In IS^ovember of the same year, 1867, 1 began a 
very long novel, which I called " He Knew He Was 
Kight," and which was brought out by Mr. Virtue, the 
proprietor of the St. PauVs Magazine, in sixpenny 
numbers, every week. I do not know that in any lit- 
erary effort I ever fell more completely short of my 
own intention than in this story. It was my purpose 
to create sympathy for the unfortunate man who, while 
endeavoring to do his duty to all around him, should be 
led constantly astray by his unwillingness to submit his 
own judgment to the opinion of others. The man is 
made to be unfortunate enough, and the evil which he 
does is apparent. So far I did not fail, but the sym- 
pathy has not been created yet. I look upon the story 
as being nearly altogether bad. It is in part redeemed 
by certain scenes in the house and vicinity of an old 



288 Autohiograjphy of Anthony Trollojpe, 

maid in Exeter. But a novel which in its main parts 
is bad cannot, in truth, be redeemed by the vitality of 
subordinate characters. 

This work was finished while I was at Washington 
in the spring of 1868, and on the day after I finished 
it I commenced "The Yicar of BuUhampton," a novel 
which I w^'ote for Messrs. Bradbury & Evans. This I 
completed in November, 1868, and at once began " Sir 
Harry Hotspur of Humblethwaite," a story which I 
was still writing at the close of the year. I look upon 
these two years, 1867 and 1868, of which I have given 
a somewhat confused account in this and the two pre- 
ceding chapters, as the busiest in my life. I had, in- 
deed, left the Post-office, bat though I had left it I had 
been employed by it during a considerable portion of 
the time. I had established the St. PauVs Magazine^ 
in reference to which I had read an enormous amount 
of manuscript, and for which, independently of my 
novels, I had written articles almost monthly. I had 
stood for Beverley and had made many speeches. I had 
also written five novels, and had hunted three times a 
week during each of the winters. And how happy I 
was with it all ! I had suffered at Beverley, but I had 
suffered as a part of the work which I was desirous of 
doing, and I had gained my experience. I had suffered 
at "VYashington with that wretched American Postmas- 
ter, and with the mosquitoes, not having been able to 
escape from that capital till July; but all that had 
added to the activity of my life. I had often groaned 
over those manuscripts ; but I had read them, consider- 
ing it — perhaps foolishly — to be a part of my duty as 
editor. And though in the quick production of my 



Four Move Novels. 289 

novels I Lead always ringing in my ears that terrible 
condemnation and scorn produced by the great man in 
Paternoster Row, I was nevertheless proud of having 
done so much. I always had a pen in my hand. 
Whether crossing the seas, or fighting with American 
officials, or tramping about the streets of Beverley, I 
could do a little, and generally more than a little. I 
had long since convinced myself that in such work as 
mine the great secret consisted in acknowledging my- 
self to be bound to rules of labor similar to those which 
an artisan or a mechanic is forced to obey. A shoe- 
maker when he has finished one pair of shoes does not 
sit down and contemplate his work in idle satisfaction. 
" There is my pair of shoes finished at last ! What a 
pair of shoes it is !" The dioemaker who so indulged 
himself would be w^ithout w\ages half his time. It is 
the same with a professional writer of books. An 
author may, of course, want time to study a new sub- 
ject. He will, at any rate, assure himself that there is 
some such good reason wdiy he should pause. He does 
pause, and will be idle for a month or two, while he 
tells himself how beautiful is that last pair of shoes 
which he has finished ! Having thought much of all 
this, and having made up my mind that I could be 
really happy only when I was at work, I had now quite 
accustomed myself to begin a second pair as soon as 
the first was out of my hands. 

13 



390 Autobiograjphy of Anthony Trollojpe. 



Chapter XYIII. 

*'THE VICAR OF BULLHAMPTON."— "SIR HARRY HOT- 
SPUR."— "AN EDITOR'S TALES."— " C^SAR." 

In 1869 I was called on to decide, in council with 
my two boys and their mother, what should be their 
destination in life. In June of that year the elder, 
who was then twenty-three, was called to the Bar; and 
as he had gone through the regular courses of lecturing, 
tuition, and study, it might be supposed that his course 
was already decided. But, just as he was called, there 
seemed to be an opening for him in another direction ; 
and this, joined to the terrible uncertainty of the Bar, 
the terror of which was not in his case lessened by any 
peculiar forensic aptitude, induced us to sacrifice dig- 
nity in quest of success. Mr. Frederic Chapman, w^ho 
was then the sole representative of the publishing 
house known as Messrs. Chapman & Hall, w^anted a 
partner, and my son Henry went into the firm. He 
remained there three years and a half ; but he did not 
like it, nor do I think he made a very good publisher. 
At any rate, he left the business with perhaps more 
pecuniary success than might have been expected from 
the short period of his labors, and has since taken 
himself to literature as a profession. "Whether he will 
work at it so hard as his father, and write as many 
books, may be doubted. 



*'TA^ Vicar of Bullhamj[ftonP 291 

My second son, Frederic, had very early in life gone 
out to Australia, having resolved on a colonial career 
when he found that boys who did not grow so fast 
as he did got above him at school. This departure 
was a great pang to his mother and me ; but it was 
permitted on the understanding that he was to come 
back wdien he was twenty-one, and then decide whether 
he would remain in England or return to the Colonies. 
In the winter of 18G8 he did come to England, and 
had a season's hunting in the old country; but there 
was no doubt in his own mind as to his settling in 
Australia. His purpose was fixed, and in the spring of 
1869 he made his second journey out. As I have since 
tliat date made two journeys to see him — of one of 
which, at any rate, I shall have to speak, as I wrote a 
long book on the Australasian Colonies — I will have 
an opportunity of saying a word or two further on of 
him and his doings. 

"The Yicar of Bullhampton" was WTitten in 1868, 
for publication in Once a Week, a periodical then be- 
longing to Messrs. Bradbury & Evans. It was not to 
come out till 1869, and I, as was my wont, had made 
my terms long previously to the proposed date. I had 
made my terms and written my story and sent it to the 
publisher long before it was wanted ; and so far my mind 
was at rest. The date fixed was the first of July, which 
date had been named in accordance with the exigencies 
of the editor of the periodical. An author who writes 
for these publications is bound to suit himself to these 
exigencies, and can generally do so without personal 
loss or inconvenience, if he will only take time by the 
forelock. With all the pages that I have written for 



293 Autobiography of Anthony Trollope. 

magazines I have never been a day late, nor have I ever 
caused inconvenience bj sending less or more matter 
than I liad stipulated to supply. But I have sometimes 
found myself compelled to suffer by the irregularity of 
others. I have endeavored to console myself by reflect- 
ing that such must ever be the fate of virtue. The in- 
dustrious must feed the idle. The honest and simple 
will always be the prey of the cunning and fraudulent. 
Tlie punctual, who keep none waiting for them, are 
doomed to wait perpetually for the unpunctual. But 
these earthly sufferers know that they are making their 
w^ay heavenwards, and their oppressors their way else- 
wards. If the former reflection does not suffice for 
consolation, the deficiency is made up by the second. I 
was terribly aggrieved on the matter of the publication 
of my new Yicar, and had to think very much of the 
ultimate rewards of punctuality and its opposite. About 
the end of March, 1869, 1 got a dolorous letter from the 
editor. All the Once a Week people were in a terrible 
trouble. They liad bought the right of translating one 
of Victor Hugo's modern novels, " L'llomme Qui Rit;" 
they had fixed a date, relying on positive pledges from 
the French publishers ; and now the great French 
author had postponed his work from week to week and 
from month to month, and it had so come to pass that 
the Frenchman's grinning hero would have to appear 
exactly at the same time as my clergyman. Was it not 
quite apparent to me, the editor asked, that 0?ice a Week 
could not hold the two ? Would I allow my clergyman 
to make his appearance in the Gentlema7i^s Magazine 
instead ? 

My disgust at this proposition was, I think, chiefly 



"77i6 Vicar of Bullham'ptonP 293 

due to Yictor Hugo's later novels, which I regard as 
pretentious and untrue to nature. To this, perhaps, was 
added some feeling of indignation that I should be 
asked to give way to a Frenchman. The Frenchman 
had broken his engagement. He had failed to have his 
work finished by the stipulated time. From week to 
week and from month to month he had put off the ful- 
filment of his duty. And because of these laches on 
his part — on the part of this sententious French Radical 
— I was to be thrown over ! Virtue sometimes finds it 
difficult to console herself even with the double comfort. 
I would not come out in the Gentleman^s Magazine^ 
and as the Grinning Man could not be got out of the 
way, my novel was published in separate numbers. 

The same thing has occurred to me more than once 
since. '^ You, no doubt, are regular," a publisher has 

said to me, " but Mr. is irregular. He has thrown 

me out, and I cannot be ready for you till three months 
after the time named." In these emergencies I have 
given perhaps half what was wanted, and have refused 
to give the other half. I have endeavored to fight my 
own battle fairly, and at the same time not to make 
myself unnecessarily obstinate. But the circumstances 
have impressed on my mind the great need there is that 
men engaged in literature should feel themselves to be 
bound to their industry as men know that they are 
bound in other callings. There does exist, I fear, a feel- 
ing that authors, because they are authors, are relieved 
from the necessity of paying attention to everyday 
rules. A writer, if he be making £800 a year, does not 
think himself bound to live modestly on £G00, and put 
by the remainder for his wife and children. He does 



294 A^ttobiogrwphy of Anthony Trollope, 

not understand that he should sit down at his desk at a 
certain hour. He imagines that publishers and book- 
sellers should keep all their engagements with him to 
the letter ; but that he, as a brain-worker, and conscious 
of the subtile nature of the brain, should be able to ex- 
empt himself from bonds when it suits him. He has 
his own theory about inspiration, which will not always 
come — especially will not come if wine-cups over-night 
have been too deep. All this has ever been odious to 
me, as being unmanly. A man may be frail in health, 
and therefore unable to do as he has contracted, in 
whatever grade of life. He who has been blessed with 
physical strength to work day by daj^, year by year — 
as has been my case — should pardon deficiencies caused 
by sickness or infirmity. I may in this respect have 
been a little hard on others, and, if so, I here record my 
repentance. But I think that no allowance should be 
given to claims for exemption from punctuality, made, 
if not absolutely on the score, still, with tlie conviction, 
of intellectual superiority. 

*' The Yicar of Bullhampton " was written chiefly 
with the object of exciting not only pity, but sympathy, 
for a fallen woman, and of raising a feeling of forgive- 
ness for such in the minds of other women. I could 
not venture to make this female the heroine of my 
story. To have made her a heroine at all would have 
been directly opposed to my purpose. It was necessary, 
tlierefore, that she should be a second-rate personage in 
the tale ; but it was with reference to her life that the 
tale was written, and the hero and the heroine, with their 
belongings, are all subordinate. To this novel I affixed 
a preface — in doing which I was acting in defiance of 



"T/i^ Yicar of BullhamjptonP 295 

my old-established principle. I do not know that any 
one read it ; but as I wish to have it read, 1 will insert 
it here again : 

"I have introduced in ^ The Yicar of Bullhampton' 
the character of a girl whom I will call — for want of a 
truer word that shall not in its truth be offensive — a 
castaway. I have endeavored to endow her with quali- 
ties that may create sympathy, and I have brought her 
back at last from degradation, at least to decency. I 
have not married her to a wealthy lover, and I have en- 
deavored to explain that though there was possible to 
lier a way out of perdition, still things could not be with 
her as they would have been had she not fallen. 

" There arises, of course, the question whether a nov- 
elist, who professes to write for the amusement of the 
young of both sexes, should allow himself to bring upon 
his stage a character such as that of Carry Brattle. It 
is not long since — it is well within tlie memory of the 
author — that the very existence of such a condition of 
life as was hers was supposed to be unknown to our 
sisters and daughters, and was, in truth, unknown to 
many of them. AVhcther that ignorance was good may 
be questioned ; but that it exists no longer is beyond 
question. Then arises the further question — how far the 
condition of such unfortunates should be made a mat- 
ter of concern to the sweet young hearts of those whose 
delicacy and cleanliness of thought is a matter of pride 
to so many of us. Cannot women who are good pity 
the sufferings of the vicious, and do something, perhaps, 
to mitigate and shorten them, without contamination 
from the vice? It will be admitted, probably, by most 
men who have thought upon the subject, that no fault 



296 AiUohiography of Anthony Trollojpe. 

among us is punished so heavily as that fault, often so 
light in itself, but so terrible in its consequences to the 
less faulty of the two offenders, by ^Yhich a woman falls. 
All her own sex is against her, and all those of the other 
sex in whose veins runs the blood which she is thought 
to have contaminated, and who, of nature, would be- 
friend her, were her trouble any other than it is. 

" She is what she is, and she remains in her abject, 
pitiless, unutterable misery, because this sentence of the 
world has placed her beyond the helping hand of Love 
and Friendship. It may be said, no doubt, that the se- 
verity of this judgment acts as a protection to female 
virtue — deterring, as all known punishments do deter, 
from vice. But this punishment, which is horrible be- 
3^ond the conception of those who have not regarded it 
closel}^, is not known beforehand. Instead of the pun- 
ishment, there is seen a false glitter of gaudy life — a 
glitter which is damnably false — and which, alas ! has 
been more often portrayed in glowing colors, for the 
injury of young girls, than have those horrors which 
ought to deter, with the dark shadowings which belong 
to them. 

" To write in fiction of one so fallen as the noblest 
of her sex, as one to be rewarded because of her weak- 
ness, as one whose life is happy, bright, and glorious, 
is certainly to allure to vice and misery. But it may, 
perhaps, be possible that if the matter be handled with 
truth to life, some girl, who would have been thought- 
less, may be made thoughtful, or some parent's heart 
may be softened." 

Those were my ideas when I conceived the story, and 
with that feeling I described the characters of Carry 



^^The Vicar of BullhaTivptonP 297 

Brattle and of her family. I have not introduced her 
lover on the scene, nor have I presented her to the 
reader in the temporary enjoyment of any of those 
fallacious luxuries, the longing for which is sometimes 
more seductive to evil than love itself. She is intro- 
duced as a poor, abased creature, who hardly knows how 
false w^ere her dreams, with very little of the Magdalene 
about her — because, though there may be Magdalenes, 
they are not often found — but with an intense horror 
of the sufferings of her position. Such being her con- 
dition, will they who naturally are her friends protect 
her? The vicar, who has taken her by the hand, en- 
deavors to excite them to charity ; but father and 
brother and sister are alike hard-hearted. It had been 
my purpose at first that the hand of every Brattle should 
be against her; but my own heart was too soft to en- 
able me to make the mother cruel — or the unmarried 
sister, who had been the early companion of the forlorn 
one. 

As regards all the Brattles, the story is, I think, well 
told. The characters are true, and the scenes at the 
mill are in keeping with human nature. For the rest 
of the book I have little to say. It is not very bad, and 
it certainly is not very good. As I have myself forgot- 
ten what the heroine does and says — except that she 
tumbles into a ditch — I cannot expect that any one else 
should remember her. But I have forgotten nothing 
that w^as done or said by any of the Brattles. 

The question brought in argument is one of fearful 
importance. As to the view to be taken first, there can, 
I think, be no doubt. In regard to a sin common to 
the two sexes, almost all the punishment and all the dis- 

13* 



298 Autobiography of Anthony Trollope. 

grace is heaped upon the one who in nine cases out of 
ten has been the least -sinfuh And the punishment in- 
flicted is of such a nature that it hardly allows room for 
repentance. How is the woman to return to decency to 
whom no decent door is opened? Then comes the an- 
swer : It is to the severity of the punishment alone that 
we can trust to keep women from falling. Such is the 
argument used in favor of the existing practice, and 
such the excuse given for their severity by women who 
will relax nothing of their harshness. But, in truth, the 
severity of the punishment is not known beforehand ; 
it is not in the least understood by women in general, 
except by tliose who suffer it. The gaudy dirt, the 
squalid plenty, the contumely of familiarity, the absence 
of all good words and all good things, the banishment 
from honest labor, the being compassed round with lies, 
the flaunting glare of fictitious revelry, the weary pave- 
ment, the horrid slavery to some horrid tyrant — and 
then the quick depreciation of that one ware of beauty, 
the substituted paint, garments bright without but foul 
within, like painted sepulchres, hunger, thirst, and strong 
drink, life without a hope, without the certainty even of 
a morrow's breakfast, utterly friendless, disease, starva- 
tion, and a quivering fear of that coming liell wliich 
still can hardly be worse than all that is suffered here ! 
This is the life to which we doom our erring daughters, 
when because of their error we close our door upon 
them ! But for our erring sons we find pardon easily 
enough. 

Of course there are houses of refuge, from which it 
has been thought expedient to banish everything pleas- 
ant, as though the only repentance to which we can af- 



"/&> Harry Hotsj^urP 399 

ford to give a place must necessarily be one of sackcloth 
and ashes. It is hardly thus that we can hope to recall 
those to decency who, if they are to be recalled at all, 
must be induced to obey the summons before they have 
reached the last stage of that misery which I have at- 
tempted to describe. To me the mistake which we too 
often make seems to be this — that the girl who has gone 
astray is put out of sight, out of mind, if possible, at any 
rate, out of speech, as though she had never existed, and 
that this ferocity comes not only from hatred of the sin, 
but in part also from a dread of the taint which the sin 
brings with it. Yery low as is the degradation to which 
a girl is brought when she falls through love or vanity, 
or perhaps from a longing for luxurious ease, still much 
lower is that to which she must descend perforce when, 
through the hardness of the world around her, she con- 
verts that sin into a trade. Mothers and sisters, when 
the misfortune comes upon them of a fallen female 
from among their number, should remember this, and 
not fear contamination so strongly as did Carry Brat- 
tle's married sister and sister-in-law. 

In 1870 I brought out three books — or, rather, of the 
latter of the three I must say that it was brought out 
by others, for I had nothing to do with it except to 
write it. These were " Sir Harry Hotspur of Humble- 
thwaite," "An Editor's Tales," and a little volume on 
Julius Caesar. " Sir Harry Hotspur " was written on 
the same plan as "Nina Balatka" and "Linda Tressel," 
and had for its object the telling of some pathetic in- 
cident in life rather than the portraiture of a number 
of human beings. "Nina" and "Linda Tressel" and 
"The Golden Lion" had been placed in foreign coun- 



300 AxUdbiogra/phy of Anthony Trollojpe. 

tries, and this was an English story. In other respects 
it is of the same nature, and was not, I think, by any 
means a failure. There is much of pathos in the love 
of the girl, and of paternal dignity and affection in the 
father. 

It was published first in Ilacmillan^s Magazine, by 
the intelligent proprietor of which I have since been 
told that it did not make either his fortune or that of 
his magazine. I am sorry that it should have been so ; 
but I fear that the same thing may be said of a good 
many of my novels. When it had passed through the 
magazine, the subsequent use of it was sold to other 
publishers by Mr. Macmillan, and then I learned that it 
was to be brought out by them as a novel in two vol- 
umes. ISTow, it liad been sold by me as a novel in one 
volume, and hence there arose a correspondence. 

I found it very hard to make the purchasers under- 
stand that I had reasonable ground for objection to the 
process. What was it to me? How could it injure 
me if they stretched my pages, by means of lead and 
margin, into double the number I had intended. I 
have heard the same argument on other occasions. 
AVhen I have pointed out that in this way the public 
would have to suffer, seeing that they would have to 
pay Mudie for the use of two volumes, in reading that 
which ought to have been given to them in one, I have 
been assured that the public are pleased with literary 
short measure, that it is the object of novel-readers to 
get through novels as fast as they can, and that the 
shorter each volume is the better! Even this, how- 
ever, did not overcome me, and I stood to my guns. 
" Sir Harry " was published in one volume, containing 



"An Editor's TalesP 301 

something over the normal 300 pages, with an average 
of 220 words to a page, which I had settled with my 
conscience to be the proper length of a novel volnme. 
I may here mention that on one occasion, and on one 
occasion only, a publisher got the better of me in a 
matter of volumes. He had a two-volume novel of mine 
running through a certain magazine, and had it printed 
complete in three volumes before I knew where I was, 
before I had seen a sheet of the letterpress. I stormed 
for a while, but I had not the heart to make him break 
up the type. 

The " Editor's Tales " was a volume republished from 
the St. PauVs Magazine, and professed to give an edi- 
tor's experience of his dealings with contributors. I do 
not think that there is a single incident in the book 
which could bring back to any one concerned the mem- 
ory of a past event. And yet there is not an incident 
in it the outline of which was not presented to my mind 
by the remembrance of some fact — how an ingenious 
gentleman got into conversation with me, I not know- 
ing that he knew me to be an editor, and pressed his lit- 
tle article on my notice ; how I was addressed by a lady 
with a becoming pseudonym, and with much equally be- 
coming audacity ; how I was appealed to by the dearest 
of little women, whom here I have called Mary Gres- 
ley; how in my own early days there was a strngglo 
over an abortive periodical, which was intended to be 
the best thing ever done ; how terrible was the tragedy 
of a poor drunkard, who, with infinite learning at his 
command, made one sad final effort to reclaim himself, 
and perished wliile he w^as making it ; and lastly, how 
a poor, weak editor was driven nearly to madness, by 



302 Aut6biograj[>hy of Anthony Trollope. 

threatened litigation from a rejected contributor. Of 
these stories " The Spotted Dog," with the struggles of 
the drunkard scholar, is the best. I know now, how- 
ever, that when the things were good they came out too 
quick one upon another to gain much attention — and 
so also, luckilv, when they were bad. 

The " Csesar" was a thing of itself. My friend John 
Blackwood had set on foot a series of small volumes 
called ''Ancient Classics for English Readers," and had 
placed the editing of them, and the compiling of many 
of them, in the hands of William Lucas Collins, a clergy- 
man who, from my connection with the series, became 
a most intimate friend. The " Iliad " and the " Odys- 
sey" had already come out when I was at Edinburgh 
with John Blackwood, and, on my expressing my veiy 
strong admiration for those two little volumes — which 
I here recommend to all young ladies as the most charm- 
ing tales they can read — he asked me whether I w^ould 
not undertake one myself. "Herodotus" was in the 
press, but, if I could get it ready, mine should be next. 
Whereupon I offered to say what might be said to the 
readers of English on " The Commentaries of Julius 
Csesar." 

I at once went to work, and in three months from 
that day the little book had been written. I began by 
reading through the " Commentaries" twice, wdiich I did 
without any assistance either by translation or English 
notes. Latin was not so familiar to me then as it has 
since become, for from that date I have almost daily 
spent an hour with some Latin author, and on many 
days many hours. After the reading what my author 
had left behind him, I fell into the reading of what 



^^CcBsar,^^ 303 

others had written about him, in Latin, in English, and 
even in French ; for I went through much of that most 
futile book bj the late Emperor of the French. I do 
not know that, for a short period, I ever w^orked harder. 
The amount I had to write was nothing. Three weeks 
would have done it easily. But I was most anxious, in 
this soaring out of my own peculiar line, not to disgrace 
myself. I do not think that I did disgrace myself. Per- 
haps I was anxious for something more. If so, I was 
disappointed. 

The book I think to be a good little book. It is read- 
able by all, old and young, and it gives, I believe accu- 
rately, both an account of "Caesar's Commentaries" — 
which, of course, was the primary intention — and the 
chief circumstances of the great Roman's life. A well- 
educated girl who had read it and remembered it would, 
perhaps, know as much about Caesar and his writings 
as she need know. Beyond the consolation of thinking 
as I do about it, I got very little gratification from the 
work. E'obody praised it. One very old and very 
learned friend to whom I sent it thanked me for my 
" comic Caesar," but said no more. I do not suppose 
that he intended to run a dagger into me. Of any suf- 
fering from such wounds, I think, while living, I never 
showed a sign ; but still I have suffered occasionally. 
There was, however, probably present to my friend's 
mind, and to that of others, a feeling that a man who 
had spent his life in writing English novels could not 
be fit to write about Csesar. It was as when an ama- 
teur gets a picture hung on the walls of the Academy. 
What business had I there ? Ne sutor ultra crepidam. 
In the press it was most faintly damned by most faint 



304 Autobiography of Anthony Trollope. 

praise. ISTevertheless, having read the book again with- 
in the last month or two, I make bold to say that it is a 
good book. The series, I believe, has done very well. 
I am sure that it ought to do well in years to come, for, 
putting aside " Csesar," the work has been done with 
infinite scholarship, and very generally with a light 
hand. With the leave of my sententious and sonorous 
friend, who had not endured that subjects which had 
been grave to him should be treated irreverently, I will 
say that such a work, unless it be light, cannot answer 
the purpose for which it is intended. It was not ex- 
actly a school-book that was wanted, but something that 
would carry the purposes of the school-room even into 
the leisure hours of adult pupils. Nothing was ever 
better suited for such a purpose than the " Iliad " and 
the " Odyssey," as done by Mr. Collins. The " Yirgil," 
also done by him, is very good ; and so is the " Aris- 
tophanes," by the same hand. 



''Raljph the IleirP 305 



Chapter XIX. 

"RALPH THE HEIR." — "THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS." — 
"LADY ANNA."— "AUSTRALIA." 

In tlie spring of 1871 we — I and mj wife — had de- 
cided that we would go to Australia to visit our shep- 
herd SOD. Of course, before doing so, I made a contract 
with a publisher for a book about the colonies. For 
such a work as this I had always been aware that I could 
not fairly demand more than half the price that would 
be given for the same amount of fiction; and as such 
books have an indomitable tendency to stretch them- 
selves, so that more is given than what is sold, and as 
the cost of travelling is heavy, the writing of them is 
not remunerative. This tendency to stretch comes not, 
I think, generally from the ambition of the writer, but 
from his inability to comprise the different parts in their 
allotted spaces. If you have to deal with a country, a 
colony, a city, a trade, or a political opinion, it is so 
much easier to deal with it in twenty than in twelve 
pages ! I also made an engagement with the editor of 
a London daily paper to supply him with a series of ar- 
ticles — which were duly written, duly published, and 
duly paid for. But, with all this, travelling with the 
object of writing is not a good trade. If the travelling 
author can pay his bills, he must be a good manager on 
the road. 



306 Autohiography of Anthony Trollojpe. 

Before starting there came upon lis the terrible neces- 
sity of coming to some resohition about our house at 
Waltham. It had been first hired, and then bought, 
primarily because it suited my Post-office avocations. 
To this reason had been added other attractions — in the 
shape of hunting, gardening, and suburban hospitalities. 
Altogether the house had been a success, and the scene 
of much happiness. But there arose questions as to 
expense. Would not a house in London be cheaper % 
There could be no doubt that my income would de- 
crease, and was decreasing. I had thrown the Post- 
office, as it were, away, and the writing of novels could 
not go on forever. Some of my friends told me already 
that at fifty-five I ought to give np the fabrication of 
love-stories. The hunting, I thought, must soon go, 
and I would not therefore allow that to keep me in the 
countiy. And then, why should I live at Walthara 
Cross now, seeing that I had fixed on that place in ref- 
erence to the Post-office ? It was therefore determined 
that we would flit, and as we were to be away for eigh- 
teen months, we determined also to sell our furniture. 
So there was a packing-up, with many tears and con- 
sultations as to what should be saved out of the things 
we loved. 

As must take place on such an occasion, there was 
some heart -felt grief. But the thing w\as done, and 
orders were given for the letting or sale of the house. 
I may as well say here that it never was let, and that it 
remained unoccupied for two years before it was sold. 
I lost by the transaction about £800. As I continually 
hear that other men make money by buying and selling 
houses, I presume I am not well adapted for transactions 



^''The Eustace Diamonds^ 307 

of that sort. I liave never made money by selling any- 
thing except a manuscript. In matters of horseflesh I 
am so inefficient that I have generally given away horses 
that I have not wanted. 

AVhen we started from Liverpool, in May, 1S71, 
^' Ealph the Heir" was running through the St. PauVs. 
This was the novel of which Charles Reade afterwards 
took the plot and made on it a play. I have always 
tliought it to be one of the worst novels I have written, 
and almost to have justified that dictum that a novelist 
after fifty should not write love-stories. It was in part 
a political novel; and ihat part which appertains to 
politics, and which recounts the electioneering experi- 
ences of the candidates at Percycross, is well enough. 
Percycross and Beverley were, of course, one and the 
same place. I^eefit, the breeches-maker, and his daugh- 
ter, are also good in their way ; and Moggs, the daugh- 
ter's lover, who was not only lover, but also one of the 
candidates at Percycross as well. But the main thread 
of the story — that which tells of the doings of the young 
gentlemen and young ladies — the heroes and heroines 
— is not good. Halph the heir has not much life about 
him ; while Ralph who is not the heir, but is intended to 
be the real hero, has none. The same may be said of the 
young ladies, of whom one — she who was meant to be 
the chief — has passed utterly out of my mind, without 
leaving a trace of remembrance behind. 

I also left in the hands of the editor of The Fort- 
nightly^ ready for production on the 1st of July follow- 
ing, a story called " The Eustace Diamonds." In that I 
think that my friend's dictum was disproved. There is 
not much love in it, but what there is, is good. The 



308 AxUobiograj)hy of Anthony Trollojpe, 

character of Lucy Morris is pretty ; and her love is as 
genuine and as well told as that of Lucy Robarts or 
Lily Dale. 

But "The Eustace Diamonds" achieved the success 
which it certainly did attain, not as a love-story, but as 
a record of a cunning little woman of pseudo-fashion, 
to whom, in her cunning, there came a series of adven- 
tures, unpleasant enough in themselves, but pleasant to 
the reader. As I wrote the book, the idea constantly 
presented itself to me that Lizzie Eustace was but a 
second Becky Sharpe ; but in planning the character I 
had not thought of this, and I believe that Lizzie would 
have been just as she is though Becky Sharpe had 
never been described. The plot of the diamond neck- 
lace is, I think, well arranged, though it produced itself 
without any forethought. I had no idea of setting 
thieves after the bauble till I had got my heroine to 
bed in the inn at Carlisle; nor of the disappointment 
of the thieves, till Lizzie had been wakened in the 
morning with the news that her door had been broken 
open. All these things, and many more, Wilkie Collins 
would have arranged before with infinite labor, prepar- 
ing things present so that they should fit in with things 
to come. I have gone on the very much easier plan of 
making everything as it comes fit in with what has gone 
before. At any rate, the book was a success, and did 
much to repair the injury which I felt had come to my 
reputation in the novel-market by the works of the last 
few years. I doubt whether I had written anything so 
successful as " The Eustace Diamonds " since " The 
Small House at Allington." I had written what was 
much better — as, for instance, " Phineas Finn " and 



^'Phineas ReduxP 309 

<'Nina Balatka;" but that is bj no means the same 
thing. 

I also left behind, in a strong-box, the manuscript of 
" Phiueas Eedux," a novel of which I have already 
spoken, and which I subsequently sold to the proprie- 
tors of the Graphic newspaper. The editor of that 
paper greatly disliked the title, assuring me that the 
public would take Eedux for the gentleman's surname 
— and was dissatisfied with me when I replied that I 
had no objection to them doing so. The introduction 
of a Latin word, or of a word from any other language, 
into the title of an English novel is undoubtedly in bad 
taste ; but after turning the matter much over in my 
own mind, I could find no other suitable name. 

I also left behind me, in the same strong-box, another 
novel, called ''An Eye for an Eye," which then had 
been some time written, and of which, as it has not 
even yet been published, I will not further speak. It 
will probably be published some day, though, looking 
forward, I can see no room for it, at any rate, for the 
next two years. 

If, therefore, the Great Britain, in which we sailed for 
Melbourne, had gone to the bottom, I had so provided 
that there would be new novels ready to come out un- 
der my name for some years to come. This considera- 
tion, however, did not keep me idle while I was at sea. 
When making long journeys, I have always succeeded 
in getting a desk put up in my cabin, and this was done 
ready for me in the Great Britain, so that I could go to 
work the day after we left Liverpool. This I did ; and 
before I reached Melbourne I had finished a story 
called " Lady Anna." Every word of this was writ- 



310 Autobiography of Anthony Trollope. 

ten at sea, during the two months required for our voy- 
age, and was done day by day — with the intermission 
of one day's illness — for eight weeks, at the rate of sixty- 
six pages of manuscript in each week, every page of 
manuscript containing two hundred and fifty words. 
Every word was counted. I have seen work come 
back to an author from the press with terrible defi- 
ciencies as to the amount supplied. Thirty-two pages 
have perhaps been wanted for a number, and the prin- 
ters, with all their art, could not stretch the matter to 
more than tw^enty-eight or nine ! The work of filling 
up must be very dreadful. I have sometimes been ridi- 
culed for the methodical details of my business. But 
by these contrivances I have been preserved from many 
troubles; and I have saved others with whom I have 
worked — editors, publishers, and printers — from much 
trouble also. 

A month or two after my return home " Lady Anna" 
appeared in The Fortnightly, following " The Eustace 
Diamonds.'* In it a young girl, who is really a lady 
of high rank and great wealth, though in her youth she 
enjoyed none of the privileges of wealth or rank, mar- 
ries a tailor who had been good to her, and whom she 
had loved when she was poor and neglected. A fine 
young noble lover is provided for her, and all the charms 
of sweet living with nice people are thrown in her way, 
in order that she may be made to give up the tailor. And 
the charms are very powerful with her. But the feeling 
that she is bound by her troth to the man -who had al- 
ways been true to her overcomes everything — and she 
marries the tailor. It was my wish, of course, to justify 
her in doing so, and to carry my readers along wuth me 



Australia. 311 

in my sympathy with her. But everybody found fault 
with me for marrying her to the tailor. What would 
they have said if I had allowed her to jilt the tailor 
and marry the good-looking young lord ? How much 
louder, then, would have been the censure ! The book 
was read, and I was satisfied. If I had not told my 
story well, there would have been no feeling in favor 
of the young lord. The horror which was expressed to 
me at the evil thing I had done, in giving the girl to 
tlie tailor, was the strongest testimony I could receive 
of the merits of the story. 

I went to Australia chiefly in order that I might see 
my son among his sheep. I did see him among his 
sheep, and remained with him for four or five very 
happy weeks. He was not making money, nor has he 
made money since. I grieve to say that several thou- 
sands of pounds which I had squeezed out of the pock- 
ets of perhaps too-liberal publishers have been lost on 
the venture. But I rejoice to say that this lias been in 
no way due to any fault of his. I never knew a man 
work with more persistent honesty at his trade than he 
has done. 

I had, however, the further intentions of writing a 
book about the entire group of Australasian colonies ; 
and in order tliat I might be enabled to do that witli 
sufficient information, I visited them all. Making my 
headquarters at Melbourne, I went to Queensland, ISTew 
South Wales, Tasmania, then to the very little known 
territory of Western Australia, and then, last of all, to 
l^ew Zealand. I w^as absent in all eighteen months, 
and think that I did succeed in learning much of the 
political, social, and material condition of these coun- 



313 Autobiography of Anthony Trollope. 

tries. I wrote my book as I was travelling, and brought 
it back with me to England all bnt completed in De- 
cember, 1872. 

It was a better book than that which I had written 
eleven years before on the American States, but not so 
good as that on the West Indies, in 1859. As regards 
the information given, there was much more to be said 
about Australia than the West Indies. Yery much 
more is said, and very much more may be learned from 
the latter than from the former book. I am sure that 
any one who will take the trouble to read the book on 
Australia will learn much from it. But the West 
Indian volume was readable. I am not sure that either 
of the other works are, in the proper sense of that word. 
When I go back to them I find that the pages drag witli 
me; and if so with me, how must it be with others who 
have none of that love which a father feels even for 
his ill-favored offspring. Of all the needs a book has 
the chief need is that it be readable. 

Feeling that these volumes on Australia w^ere dull 
and long, I was surprised to find that they had an ex- 
tensive sale. There were, I think, 2000 copies circu- 
lated of the first expensive edition ; and then the book 
was divided into four little volumes, which were pub- 
lished separately, and which again had a considerable 
circulation. That some facts were stated inaccurately, 
I do not doubt ; that many opinions were crude, I am 
quite sure ; that I had failed to understand much which 
I attempted to explain, is possible. But with all these 
faults the book was a thoroughly honest book, and was 
the result of unflagging labor for a period of fifteen 
months. I spared myself no trouble in inquiry, no 



Australia. 313 

trouble in seeing, and no trouble in listening. I thor- 
oughly imbued my mind with the subject, and wrote 
with the simple intention of giving trustwortliy infor- 
mation on the state of the Colonies. Though there be 
inaccuracies — those inaccuracies to which work quickly 
done must always be subject — I think I did give much 
valuable information. 

I came home across America from San Francisco to 
l!^ew York, visiting Utah and Brigham Young on the 
way. I did not achieve great intimacy with the great 
polygamist of the Salt Lake City. I called u]3on him, 
sending to him my card, apologizing for doing so with- 
out an introduction, and excusing myself by saying 
that I did not like to pass through the territory with- 
out seeing a man of whom I had heard so much. He 
received me in his doorway, not asking me to enter, 
and inquired whether I were not a miner. When I told 
him that I -was not a miner, he asked me whether I 
earned my bread. I told him I did. '' I guess you're 
a miner," said he. I again assured him that I was not. 
"Then how do you earn your bread?" I told him 
that I did so by writing books. '' I'm sure you're a 
miner," said he. Then he turned upon his heel, went 
back into the house, and closed the door. I was prop- 
erly punished, as I was vain enough to conceive that 
he would have heard my name. 

'I got home in December, 1872, and in spite of any 
resolution made to the contrary, my mind was full of 
hunting as I came back. No real resolutions had, in 
truth, been made, for out of a stud of four horses I kept 
three, two oi which were absolutely idle through the 
t 'o summers and winter of my absence. Immediately 

14 



314 Autohiography of Anthony Trollope. 

on my arrival I bought another, and settled myself 
down to hunting from London three days a week. At 
first I went back to Essex, my old country, but finding 
that to be inconvenient, I took my horses to Leighton 
Buzzard, and became one of that numerous herd of 
sportsmen who rode with the " Baron " and Mr. Selby 
Lowndes. In those days Baron Meyer was alive, and 
the riding with liis liounds was very good. I did not 
care so much for Mr. Lowndes. During the winters 
of 1873, 1874, and 1875 I had my horses back in Essex, 
and went on with my hunting, always trying to resolve 
that I would give it up. But still I bought fresh 
horses, and, as I did not give it up, I hunted more than 
ever. Three times a week the cab has been at my door 
in London very punctually, and not unfrequently be- 
fore seven in the morning. In order to secure this at- 
tendance, the man has always been invited to have his 
breakfast in the hall. I have gone to the Great East- 
ern Hallway — ah ! so often with the fear that frost 
would make all my exertions useless, and so often, too, 
with that result! — and then, from one station or an- 
other station, have travelled on wheels at least a dozen 
miles. After the day's sport, the same toil has been 
necessary to bring me home to dinner at eight. This 
has been work for a young man and a rich man, but I 
have done it as an old man and comparatively a poor 
man. Now at last, in April, 1876, 1 do think that my 
resolution has been taken. I am giving away my old 
horses, and anybody is welcome to my saddles and 
horse-furniture. 

"Singula de nobis anni pioedantur euntes; 
Eripuere jocos, venerem, convivia, ludum ; 
Tenduut extorquere poemata." 



Australia. 315 

" Our years keep taking toll as they move on ; 
My feasts, my frolics, are already gone, 
And nosv, it seems, my verses must go too." 

This is Conington's translation, but it seems to me 
to be a little flat. 

*' Years as they roll cut all our pleasures short ; 
Our pleasant mirth, our loves, our wine, our sport. 
And then they stretch their power, and crush at last 
Even the power of singing of the past." 

I think that I may say with truth that I rode hard 
to my end. 

" Vixi puellis nuper idoneus, 
Et militavi non sine gloria ; 
Nunc arma defunctumque hello 
Barbiton hie paries habebit." 

"I've lived about the covert side, 

I've ridden straight, and ridden f^ist ; 
Now breeches, boots, and scarlet pride 
Are but mementoes of the past." 



316 AiUobiograj>hy of Antfiony Trollope, 



Chapter XX. 

*'THE WAY WE LIVE NOW" AND *'THE PRIME 
MINISTER. "—CONCLUSION. 

In what I have said at the end of the last chapter, 
about my hunting, I have been carried a little in ad- 
vance of the date at which I had arrived. We returned 
from Australia in the winter of 1872, and early in 1873 
I took a house in Montagu Square — in which I hope to 
live and hope to die. Our first work in settling there 
was to place upon new shelves the books which I had 
collected round myself at Waltham. And this work, 
which w^as in itself great, entailed also the labor of a 
new catalogue. As all who use libraries know, a cata- 
logue is nothing unless it show the spot on which every 
book is to be found — information which every volume 
also ought to give as to itself. Only those who have 
done it know how great is the labor of moving and ar- 
ranging a few thousand volumes. At the present mo- 
ment' I own about 5000 volumes, and they are dearer 
to me even than the horses which are going, or than 
the wdne in the cellar, which is very apt to go^ and 
upon which I also pride myself. 

When this was done, and the new furniture had got 
into its place, and my little book-room was settled suffi- 
ciently for work, I began a novel, to the writing of 
which I was instigated by what I conceived to be the 



''The Way We Live Now^ 817 

commercial profligacy of the age. Whether the world 
does or does not become more wicked as years go on, 
is a question which probably has disturbed the minds 
of thinkers since the world began to think. That men 
have become less cruel, less violent, less selfish, less bru- 
tal, there can be no doubt ; but have they become less 
honest? If so, can a world, retrograding from day to 
day in honesty, be considered to be in a state of prog- 
ress. We know the opinion on this subject of our phi- 
losopher Mr. Carlyle. If he be right, we are all going 
straight away to darkness and the dogs. But then we 
do not put very much faith in Mr. Carlyle, nor in Mr. 
Ruskin, and his other followers. The loudness and ex- 
travaojance of their lamentations, the wailinc: and o-nash- 
ing of teeth which comes from them, over a world 
which is supposed to have gone altogether shoddy-wards, 
are so contrary to the convictions of men who cannot 
but see how comfort has been increased, how health 
has been improved, aud education extended, that the 
general effect of their teaching is the opposite of what 
they have intended. It is regarded simply as Carlylism 
to say that the English-speaking world is growing worse 
from day to day. And it is Carlylism to opine that 
the general grand result of increased intelligence is a 
tendency to deterioration. 

Nevertheless a certain class of dishonesty — dishonesty 
magnificent in its proportions, and climbing into high 
places — has become at the same time so rampant and so 
splendid that there seems to be reason for fearing that 
men and women will be taught to feel that dishonesty, 
if it can become splendid, will cease to be abominable. 
If dishonesty can live in a gorgeous palace, with pict- 



318 Autobiography of Anthony Trolloj>e. 

iires on all its walls, and gems in all its cupboards, with 
marble and ivory in all its corners, and cmi give Apician 
dinners, and get into Parliament, and deal in millions, 
then dishonesty is not disgraceful, and the man dishon- 
est after such a fashion is not a low scoundrel. Insti- 
gated, I say, by some such reflections as these, I sat 
down in my new house to write " The Way We Live 
JSTow." And as I had ventured to take the whip of the 
satirist into my hand, I went beyond the iniquities of 
the great speculator who robs everybody, and made an 
onslaught also on other vices — on the intrigues of girls 
who want to get married, on the luxury of young men 
who prefer to remain single, and on the puffing propen- 
sities of authors who desire to cheat the public into 
buying their volumes. 

The book has the fault which is to be attributed to 
almost all satires, whether in prose or verse. The ac- 
cusations are exaggerated, the vices are colored, so as 
to make effect rather than to represent truth. Who, 
when the lash of objurgation is in his hands, can so 
moderate his arm as never to strike harder than justice 
would require ? The spirit which produces the satire 
is honest enough, but the very desire which moves the 
satirist to do his work energetically makes him dishon- 
est. In other respects " The Way We Live Now " was, 
as a satire, powerful and good. The character of Mel- 
motte is well maintained. The bear-garden is amusing, 
and not untrue. The Longestaffe girls and their friend. 
Lady Monogram, are amusing, but exaggerated. Dolly 
Longestaffe, is, I think, very good. And Lady Carbury's 
literary efforts are, I am sorry to say, such as are too 
frequentl}^ made. But here again the young lady with 



"The Way We Live Now^' 819 

her two lovers is weak and vapid. I almost doubt 
whether it be not impossible to have two absolutely dis- 
tinct parts in a novel, and to imbue them both with in- 
terest. If they be distinct, the one will seem to be no 
more than padding to the other. And so it was in 
" The Way We Live Now." The interest of the story 
lies among the wicked and foolish people, with Mel- 
motte and his daughter, with Dolly and his family, with 
the American woman, Mrs. Hurtle, and with John 
Crumb and the girl of his heart. But Koger Carbury, 
Paul Montague, and Henrietta Carbury are uninterest- 
ing. Upon the whole, I by no means look upon the 
book as one of my failures; nor was it taken as a fail- 
ure by the public or the press. 

While I was writing "The Way We Live Now" I 
was called upon by the proprietors of the Graphic for 
a Christmas story. I feel, with regard to literature, 
somewhat as I suppose an upholsterer and undertaker 
feels when he is called upon to supply a funeral. He 
has to supply it, however distasteful it may be. It is 
his business, and he will starve if he neglect it. So 
have I felt that, when anything in the shape of a novel 
was required, I was bound to produce it. ISTothing can 
be more distasteful to me than to have to give a relish 
of Christmas to wdiat I write. I feel the humbug im- 
plied by the nature of the order. A Christmas story, 
in the proper sense, should be the ebullition of some 
mind anxious to instil others with a desire for Christ- 
mas religious thought, or Christmas festivities, or, bet- 
ter still, with Christmas charity. Such was the case 
with Dickens when he wrote his first two Christmas 
stories. But since that the things written annually — all 



320 Autobiography of Anthony Trollope. 

of wliicli have been fixed to Christmas like children's 
toys to a Christmas-tree — have had no real savor of 
Christmas about them. I had done two or three be- 
fore. Alas ! at this very moment I have one to write, 
which I have promised to supply within three weeks of 
this time — the picture-makers always requiring a long 
interval — as to which I have in vain been cudgelling my 
brain for the last month. I can't send away the order 
to another shop, but I do not know how I shall ever 
get the coffin made. 

For the Grajphic^ in 1873, 1 wrote a little story about 
Australia. Christmas at the antipodes is of course mid- 
summer, and I was not loath to describe the troubles to 
which my own son had been subjected, by the mingled 
accidents of heat and bad neighbors, on his station in 
the bush. So I wrote " Harry Heathcote of Gangoil," 
and was well through my labor on that occasion. I 
only w^sh I may have no worse success in that which 
now hangs over my head. 

When " Harry Heathcote " was over, I returned with 
a full heart to Lady Glencora and her husband. I had 
never yet drawn the completed picture of such a states- 
man as my imagination had conceived. The personages 
with whose names my pages had been familiar, and, per- 
haps, even the minds of some of my readers — the Brocks, 
De Terriers, Monks, Greshams, and Daubeneys — had 
been more or less portraits, not of living men, but of 
living political characters. The strong-minded, thick- 
skinned, nsef ul, ordinary member, either of the Govern- 
ment or of the Opposition, had been very easy to de- 
scribe, and had required no imagination to conceive. 
The character reproduces itself from generation to gen- 



'-''The Prime Minister P 321 

eration ; and, as it does so, becomes shorn in a wonder- 
ful way of those little touches of humanity wliich would 
be destructive of its purposes. Now and again there 
comes a burst of human nature, as in the quarrel be- 
tween Burke and Fox ; but, as a rule, the men submit 
themselves to be shaped and fashioned, and to be formed 
into tools, which are used either for building up or pull- 
ing down, and can generally bear to be changed from 
this box into the other, without, at any rate, the appear- 
ance of much personal suffering. Four-and-twenty gen- 
tlemen will amalgamate themselves into one whole, and 
work for one purpose, having each of them to set aside 
his own idiosyncrasy, and to endure the close personal 
contact of men who must often be personally disagree- 
able, having been thoroughly taught that in no other 
way can they serve either their country or their own 
ambition. These are the men who are publicly useful, 
and whom the necessities of the age supply — as to whom 
I have never ceased to wonder that stones of such strong 
calibre should be so quickly worn down to the shape and 
smoothness of rounded pebbles. 

Such have been to me the Brocks and the Mildmays, 
about whom I have written with great pleasure, having 
had my mind much exercised in watching them. But 
I had also conceived the character of a statesman of a 
different nature — of a man who should be in something, 
perhaps, superior, but in very much inferior, to these 
men ; of one who could not become a pebble, having too 
strong an identity of his own. To rid one's self of fine 
scruples — to fall into the traditions of a party — to feel 
the need of subservience, not only in acting, but also, 
even, in thinking — to be able to be a bit, and at first 

14* 



322 Autobiography of Anthony Trollope. 

only a very little bit — these are the necessities of the 
growing statesman. The time may come, the glorious 
time, when some great self-action shall be possible, and 
shall be even demanded — as when Peel gave np the Corn 
Laws; but the rising man, as he puts on his harness, 
should not allow himself to dream of this. To become 
a good, round, smooth, hard, useful pebble is his duty ; 
and to achieve this he must harden his skin and swallow 
his scruples. But every now and again we see the at- 
tempt made by men who cannot get their skins to be 
hard, wlio, after a little while, generally fall out of the 
ranks. The statesman of whom I was thinking — of 
whom I had long thought — was one who did not fall 
out of the ranks, even though his skin would not be- 
come hard. He should have rank and intellect and par- 
liamentary habits, by which to bind him to the service 
of his country ; and he should also have unblemished, 
unextinguishable, inexhaustible love of country. That 
virtue I attribute to our statesmen generally. They who 
are without it are, I think, mean indeed. This man 
should have it as the ruling principle of his life ; and it 
should so rule him that all other things should be made 
to give way to it. But he should be scrupulous, and, 
being scrupulous, weak. When called to the highest 
place in the council of his sovereign, he should feel with 
true modesty his own insufficiency ; but not the less 
should the greed of power grow upon him when he had 
once allowed himself to taste and enjoy it. Such was 
the character I endeavored to depict in describing the 
triumph, the troubles, and the failure of my Prime 
Minister. And I think that I have succeeded. AVhat 
the public may think, or what the press may say, I do 



'-''The Prime Minister P 333 

not 3^et know, the work having, as yet, run but half its 
course."^ 

That the man's character should be understood as I 
understand it — or that of liis wife, the delineation of 
which has also been a matter of much happy care to me 
— I have no right to expect, seeing that the operation of 
describing has not been confined to one novel, which 
might, perhaps, be read through by the majority of those 
who commenced it. It has been carried on through 
three or four, each of which will be forgotten, even by 
the most zealous reader, almost as soon as read. In/' The 
Prime Minister," my Prime Minister will not allow his 
wife to take office among, or even over, those ladies who 
are attached by office to the queen's court. " I should 
not choose," he says to her, " that my wife should have 
any duties unconnected with our joint family and home." 
Who will remember in reading those words that, in a 
former story, published some years before, he tells his 
wife, when she has twitted him with his willingness to 
clean the Premier's shoes, that he would even allow her 
to clean them if it were for the good of the country? 
And yet it is by such details as these that I have, for 
many years past, been manufacturing within my own 
mind the characters of the man and his wife. 

I think that Plantagenet Palliser, Duke of Omnium, 
is a perfect gentleman. If he be not, then am I unable 

* Writing this note in 1878, after a lapse of nearly three years, I am 
obliged to say that, as regards the public, "The Prime Minister" was a 
failure. It was worse spoken of by the press than any novel I had writ- 
ten. I was specially hurt by a criticism on it in the Spectator. The 
critic who wrote the article I know to be a good critic, inclined to be more 
than fair to me ; but in this case I could not agree with him, so much do 
I love the man whose character I had endeavored to portray. 



324 Autobiography of Anthony Trollojpe. 

to describe a gentleman. She is bj no means a perfect 
ladj; but if she be not all over a woman, then am I not 
able to describe a woman. I do not think it probable 
that my name will remain among those who in the next 
century will be known as the writers of English prose 
fiction ; but if it does, that permanence of success will 
probably rest on the character of Plantagenet Palliser, 
Lady Glencora, and the Rev. Mr. Crawley. 

I have now come to the end of that long series of 
books written by myself, with which the public is al- 
ready acquainted. Of those which I may hereafter be 
able to add to them I cannot speak; though I have an 
idea that I shall even yet once more have recourse to 
my political hero as the mainstay of another story. 
When "The Prime Minister" was finished 1 at once 
began another novel, wliich is now completed, in three 
volumes, and which is called " Is He Popen joy ?" There 
are two Popenjoys in the book, one succeeding to the 
title held by the other ; but as they are both babies, and 
do not in the course of the story progress beyond baby- 
hood, the future readers, should the tale ever be pub- 
lished, will not be much interested in them. I^everthe- 
less the story, as a story, is not, I think, amiss. Since 
that I have written still another three-volume novel, to 
which, very much in opposition to my publisher, I have 
given the name of " The American Senator." ^ It is to 
appear in Temple Bar, and is to commence its appear- 
ance on the first of next month. Such being its circum- 
stances, I do not know that I can say anything else 
about it here. 

* "The American Senator" and "Popenjoy " have appeared, each with 
fair success. Neither of them has encountered that reproach which, in 



Conclusion. 325 

And so I end the record of my literary performances, 
which I think are more in amount tlian the works of 
any other living English author. If any English authors 
not living have written more— as may probably have 
been the'^case— I do not know who they are. I find 
that, taking the books which have appeared under our 
names, I have published much more than twice as much 
as Carlyle. I have also published considerably more 
than Yoltaire, even including his letters. We are told 
that Yarro, at the age of eighty, had written 480 vol- 
umes, and that he went on writing for eight years 
lono-er I wish I knew what was the length of Yarro's 
volumes ; I comfort myself by reflecting that the amount 
of manuscript described as a book in Yarro's time was 
not much. Yarro, too, is dead, and Yoltaire ; whereas 
I am still living, and may add to the pile. 

The following is a list of the books I have written, 
with the dates of publication and the sums I have re- 
ceived for them. The dates given are the years in 
which the works were published as a whole, most of 
them having appeared before in some serial form. 

Date of Total Snms 

"Karnes of Works. Publication. Keceived. 

The Macderraots of Ballycloivan 1847 £^^ G 9 

The Kellys and the O'Kellys 1848 gO 

La Vendee ^^"^S; 

The Warden '^^^I'il 727 U 3 

Earchester Towers 18o7> ^ 

ThelWClerks « '^ ,, 

Doctor Thorne ;;•;;".'"" ioro 9-,o 

o> Tlie West Indies and the Spanish Main. . . 1859 2oO u u 

The Bertrams -^j^^ ^^''^ 

re.nird to » The Prime Minister," seemed to tell me that my work as a 
no'^-elist should be brought to a close. And yet I feel assured that they 
nre very inferior to "The Prime Minister." 



336 Autobiography of Anthony Trollope, 

^ , Date of Total Sums 
Names of Works. Publication. Received. 

Castle Richmond 1860 £600 

Framley Parsonage 1861 1000 

Tales of All Countries— 1st Series 1861 ^ 

*' " 2d " 1863 > 1830 

'* «♦ 3d " 1870) 

OrleyFarm 1862 3135 

.^'" North America 1862 * 1250 

RachelRay 1863 1645 

The Small House at Allington 186-t 3000 

Can You Forgive' Her ? 1864 3525 

Miss Mackenzie 1865 1300 

The Belton Estate 1866 1757 

The Claverings 1867 2800 

The Last Chronicle of Barset 1867 3000 

Nina Balatka 1867 450 

Linda Tressel 1868 450 

Phineas Finn. 1869 3200 

He Knew He Was Right 1869 3200 

Brown, Jones, and Robinson 1870 600 

The Vicar of BuUhampton 1870 2500 

An Editor's Tales 1870 378 00 

^ Casar (Ancient Classics). 1870* 00 

Sir Harry Hotspur of Humblethwaite 1871 750 

Ralph the Heir 1871 2500 

The Golden Lion of Granpere 1872 550 

The Eustace Diamonds 1 873 2500 

Australia and New Zealand 1 873 1 300 

Phineas Redux 1874 2500 

Harry Heathcote of Gangoil 1 874 450 

Lady Anna 1874 1200 

The Way We Live Now 1875 3000 

The Prime Minister 1876 2500 

The American Senator 1877 1800 

Is He Popenjoy ? 1878 1600 GO 

' South Africa 1878 850 

John Caldigate 1879 1800 

r- Sundries 7800 

£68,939 17 5 

It will not, I am sure, be thought that, in making my 
boast as to quantity, I have endeavored to lay claim to 

* This was given by me as a present to my friend John Blackwood. 



Conclusion, 327 

any literary excellence. That, in the writing of books, 
quantity without quality is a vice and a misfortune, has 
been too manifestly settled to leave a doubt on such a 
matter. But I do lay claim to whatever merit should 
be accorded to me for persevering diligence in my pro- 
fession. And I make the claim, not with a view to my 
own glory, but for the benefit of those who may read 
these pages, and when young may intend to follow the 
same career. Nulla dies sine lined. Let that be their 
motto. And let their work be to them as is his com- 
mon work to the common laborer. E"o gigantic efforts 
will then be necessar3\ He need tie no wet towels 
round his brow, nor sit for thirty hours at his desk 
without moving — as men have sat, or said that they 
have sat. More than nine tenths of my literary work 
has been done in the last twenty years, and during 
twelve of those years I followed another profession. I 
have never been a slave to this work, giving due time, 
if not more than due time, to the amusements I have 
loved. But I have been constant — and constancy in 
labor wall conquer all difficulties. GiUta cavat lapidem 
non viy sed scejpe cadendo. 

It may interest some if I state that during the last 
twenty years I have made by literature something near 
£70,000. As I have said before in these pages, I look 
upon the result as comfortable, but not splendid. 

It will not, I trust, be supposed by any reader that I 
have intended in this so-called autobiography to give a 
record of my inner life. JS'o man ever did so truly — 
and no man ever will. Rousseau probably attempted 
it, but who doubts but that Eousseau has confessed in 
much the thoughts and convictions rather than the facts 



328 Autobiography of Anthony Trollojpe. 

of his life? If the rustle of a woman's petticoat has 
ever stirred my blood ; if a cup of wine has been a joy 
to n\e ; if I have thought tobacco at midnight in pleas- 
ant company to be one of the elements of an earthly 
paradise ; if now and again I have somewhat recklessly 
fluttered a £5 note over a card table ; of what matter is 
that to any reader? I have betrayed no woman. Wine 
has brought me to no sorrow. It has been the compan- 
ionship of smoking that I have loved, rather than the 
habit. I have never desired to win money, and I have 
lost none. To enjoy the excitement of pleasure, but to 
be free from its vices and ill effects — to have the sweet, 
and leave the bitter untasted — that has been my study. 
The preachers tell us that this is impossible. It seems 
to me that hitherto I have succeeded fairly well. I will 
not say that I have never scorched a finger — but I carry 
no ugly wounds. 

For what remains to me of life I trust for my happi- 
ness still chiefly to my work — hoping, that when the 
power of work be over with me, God may be pleased 
to take me from a world in which, according to my 
view, there can be no joy ; secondl}^, to the love of those 
who love me ; and then, to my books. That I can read, 
and be happy while I am reading, is a great blessing. 
Could I remember, as some men do, what I read, I should 
have been able to call myself an educated man. But 
that power I have never possessed. Something is al- 
ways left — something dim and inaccurate — but still 
something sufficient to preserve the taste for more. I 
am inclined to think that it is so with most readers. 

Of late years, putting aside the Latin classics, I have 
found my greatest pleasure in our old English drama- 



Conclusion. 329 

tists— not from any excessive love of their work, which 
offeen irritates me by its want of truth to nature, even 
while it shames me by its language — but from curiosity 
in searching their plots and examining their character. 
If I live a few years longer, I shall, I think, leave, in my 
copies of these dramatists, down to the close of James 
I., written criticisms on every play. No one wlio has 
not looked closely into it knows how many there are. 

Now I stretch out my hand, and from the further 
shore I bid adieu to all who have cared to read any 
among the many words that I have written. 



THE END. 



CHARLES DICKENS'S WORKS. 



HARPER'S HOUSEHOLD EDITION. 

7/1 16 volumes, Paper, $14 00 ; Cloth, $22 00. In 8 volumes, Cloth, $20 00 ; 
Imitation Half Morocco, $22 00 ; Half Calf, $40 00. 

THE ADVENTURES OP OLIVER TWIST. With 28 Illustrations by J. 

Mauoney. Svo, Paper, 50 cents ; Cloth, $1 00. 
THE LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT. With 

59 Illustrations by F. Barnard. 8vo, Paper, $1 00 ; Cloth, $1 50. 
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. With 54 Illustrations by Thomas Worth. 

Svo, Paper, 75 cents ; Cloth, $1 25. • 

THE PERSONAL HISTORY OF DAVID COPPERFIELD. With Por- 
trait of Author, and 61 Illustrations by F. Barnard. Svo, Paper, $1 00; 

Cloth, $1 50. 
DOMBEY AND SON. With 52 Illustrations by W. L. SuErrARo. Svo, 

Paper, $1 00 ; Cloth, $1 50. 
THE LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. With 

52 Illustrations by C. S. Reinuart. Svo, Paper, $1 00 ; Cloth, $1 50. 
THE POSTHUMOUS PAPERS OF THE PICKWICK CLUB. With 52 

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BLEAK HOUSE. With Gl Illustrations by F. Barnard. Svo, Paper, $1 00 ; 

Cloth, $1 50. 
LITTLE DORRIT. With 58 IlUistrations by J. MAnoNEv. Svo, Paper, 

$100; Cloth, $150. 
BARNABY RUDGE. With 44 Illustrations by F. Barnard. Svo, Paper, 

$100; Cloth, $150. 
A TALE OF TWO CITIES. With 41 Illustrations. Svo, Paper, 50 cents ; 

Cloth, $1 00. 
OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. With 58 Illustrations by J. Mauoney. Svo, 

Paper, $1 00 ; Cloth, $1 50. 
CHRISTMAS STORIES. With 27 Illustrations by E. A. Abbey. Svo, Pa- 
per, $1 00 ; Cloth, $1 50. 
GREAT EXPECTATIONS. With 30 Hlustrations by F. A. Fraser. Svo, 

Paper, $1 00 ; Cloth, $1 50. 
THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELLER, HARD TIMES, AND THE 

MYSTERY OF EDWIN DROOD. With 45 Illustrations. Svo, Paper, 

$1 00 ; Cloth, $1 50. 
PICTURES FROM ITALY, SKETCHES BY BOZ, AND AMERICAN 

NOTES. With 64 Illustrations by Thomas Nast and Artude B. Frost. 

Svo, Paper, $1 00 ; Cloth, $1 50. 



Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 

r^- Harper & Brothers will send any of the above ivorks by mail, postage 
prepaid, to any part of the United States^ on receipt of the price. 



W. M. THACKEMrS WOEKS. 



HAEPEE'S POPULAR EDITION. 

8vo, Paper. 
NoYELS: Denis Duval. Illustrated. 25 cents. — Henry Esmond. 
50 cents. — Henry Esmond, and Lovel the Widower. Hlustrated. 
60 cents. — Lovel the Widower. 20 cents. — Pendennis. Illus. 
trated. 75 cents. — The Adventures of Philip. Hlustrated. 60 
cents. — The Great Hoggarty Diamond. 20 cents. — The New- 
comes. Illustrated. 90 cents. — The Virginians. Illustrated. 
90 cents. — Vanity Fair. Illustrated. 80 cents. 



Henry Esmond, 4to, Paper, 15 cents. 



HAEPEE'S HOUSEHOLD EDITION. 

12mo, Clotli. 
NoYELS: Vanity Fair. — Pendennis. — The Newcoraes. — The Virgini- 
ans. — Adventures of Philip. — Henry Esmond, and Lovel the 
Widower. Illustrated. Six volumes, 12mo, Cloth, $1 25 per 
volume. 

Miscellaneous Writings : Barry Lyndon, Hoggarty Diamond, &c. — 
Paris and Irish Sketch Books, &c. — Book of Snobs, Sketches, 
&c. — Four Georges, English Humorists, Eoundabout Papers, &c. 
— Catherine, Christmas Books, &c. Illustrated. Five volumes, 
12mo, Cloth, $1 25 per volume. 

Complete Sets (11 w/.s),$12 00. 



Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 

Harper & Brothers will send any of tlie above volumes by mail^ 
postage prepaid, to any part of the United States, on receipt of 
ilie price. 



CHARLES READE'S WORKS. 



HAKPER'S POPULAR EDITION. 

8vo, Paper. 

HARD CASH. Illustrated. 50 cents. 

A WOMAN-HATER. Illustrated. 60 cents. 

FOUL PLAY. 35 cents. 

GRIFFITH GAUNT. Illustrated. 40 cents. 

IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND. 50 cents. 

LOVE ME LITTLE, LOVE ME LONG. 35 cents. 

PEG WOFFINGTON, CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE, AND OTHER 

TALES. 50 cents. 
PUT YOURSELF IN HIS PLACE. Illustrated. 50 cents. 
THE CLOISTER AND THE HEARTH. 50 cents. 
THE WANDERING HEIR. lUustvatea. 25 cents. 
WHITE LIES. 40 cents. 

A HERO AND A MARTYR. With a Portrait. 15 cents. 
A SIMPLETON. 35 cents. 
A TERRIBLE TEMPTATION. Illustrated. 40 cents. 



32mo, Paper. 
THE JILT. Illustrated. 20 cents. 
THE COMING MAN. 20 cents. 



HAEPEE'S HOUSEHOLD EDITION. 

Illustrated. 1 2mo, Cloth. 



HARD CASH. 
FOUL PLAY. 
WHITE LIES. 
LOVE ME LITTLE, LOVE ME 

LONG. 
GRIFFITH GAUNT. 
THE CLOISTER AND THE 

HEARTH. 



A WOMAN-HATER. 

NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND. 

PEG WOFFINGTON, &c. 

PUT YOURSELF IN HIS 
PLACE. 

A TERRIBLE TEMPTATION. 

A SIMPLETON, & THE WAN- 
DERING HEIR. 



Twelve Volumes. $1 00 per vol. 
Complete Sets, $10 00. 



Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 
Se?it by mail, postage prepaid, on receipt of price. 



GEORGE ELIOT'S WORKS. 



ADAM BEDE. A Novel. Illustrated. 12mo, Cloth, $1 25. 
DANIEL DERONDA. A Novel. 2 vols., 12mo, Cloth, $2 50. 
IMPRESSIONS OF THEOPHRASTUS SUCH. 12mo, Cloth, $1 25. 
FELIX HOLT, THE RADICAL. A Novel. Illustrated. 12mo, 

Cloth, $1 25. 
MIDDLEMARCH. A Novel. 2 vols., 12mo, Cloth, $2 50. 
ROMOLA. A Novel. Illustrated. 12mo, Cloth, $1 25. 
SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE, and SILAS MARNER, The Weaver 

of Raveloe. Illustrated. 12mo, Cloth, $1 25. 
THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. A Novel. Illustrated. 12mo, Cloth. 

$1 25. 



Harper & Brothers also publish Cheaper Editiom of George Eliot's 
"Works, as follows : 

DANIEL DERONDA. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents.— IMI^RESSIONS OF 
THEOPHRASTUS SUCH. 4to, Paper, 10 cents. — FELIX 
HOLT. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents.— THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
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Cloth, $1 25.— ROMOLA. Svo, Paper, 50 cents.— SCENES OF 
CLERICAL LIFE. Svo, Paper, 50 cents. (Also, in 3 vols., 
32mo, Paper, AMOS BARTON, MR. GILFIL'S LOVE STORY, 
JANET'S REPENTANCE, 20 cents each.)— SILAS MARNER. 
12mo, Cloth, 75 cents. — BROTHER JACOB; THE LIFTED 
VEIL. 82mo, Paper, 20 cents. 



Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. . 

Any of the above works will he sent by mail, postage prepaid, to 
any part of the United States, on receipt of the price. 



By GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS. 



LOTUS -EATING. A Summer Book. Illustrated from Designs 
by Kensett. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

This delightful volume is a record of summer rambles, touching gracefully 
on mauy of the most iuterestiug spots in American scenery, and giving a 
series of lively pictures of the celebrated places of fashionable resort. 

PRUE AND I. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

In the character and fancies of an old book-keeper, the author of these 
charming essays has embodied the sweetest and most genial humor which 
has graced English literature since the delightful Essays of Elia. 

NILE NOTES OF A HOWADJL ]2mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

The author takes the reader with him into rare and beautiful scenes of 
nature, unfolds the mysteries of Arabian life, and reproduces the strange 
incidents of a unique tour in language of wonderful vividness and force. 

THE HOWADJI IN SYRIA. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

It abounds in picturesque descriptions of the marvels of the Holy Land, 
throwing fresh light on ancient localities, and imbued with the spirit of 
sympathy and reverence for the sacred scenes which it calls forth from the 
dim oblivion of the past. 

THE POTIPHAR PAPERS. Illustrated by Drawings from 
Hoppin. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

As graphic and telling descriptions of a peculiar phase of American so- 
ciety, they are unexcelled; the fresh and sparkling wit, the genial humor, 
and keen and truthful satire with wliich "Our Best Society" is dissected, 
have delighted thousands, and made "Mrs. Potiphar " a proverb. 

TRUMPS. A Novel. Illustrated by Hoppin. ]2mo, Cloth, 

$2 00. 

Gay and sparkling in its external aspect, the novel is evidently the fruit 
of profound insigiit and conscientious adherence to the truth of nature, as 
well as of acute observation and a spontaneous liveliness of humor. The 
materials are drawn from the many-colored exhibitions of fashionable and 
commercial life in New York; and they are wrought up into a cabinet of 
portraitures which vividly reflect the familiar traits of the original. 



PuWished by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 

Any of the above works nent by mail, postacje prepaid, to any part of 
the United States, on receipt of the price. 



<: 



ENGLISH MEN OF LETTERS. 

EDITED BY JOHN MORLEY. 



The following Volumes are uow ready: 

JOHNSON Leslie Stephen. 

GIBBON. ..'. J. C. MoKisoN. 

SCOTT K. H. Button. 

SHELLEY J. A. Symonds. 

HUME T.H.Huxley. 

GOLDSMITH William Black. 

DEFOE William Minto. 

BURNS J. C. Sn AiRP. 

SPENSER The Dean of St. Paul's. 

THACKERAY Antiiont Tbollope. 

BURKE John Mokley. 

MILTON Mark Pattison. 

HAWTHORNE Henuy James, Jr. 

SOUTHEY E. DowuEN. 

CHAUCER A. ^V. Wakp. 

BUNYAN J. A. Froude. 

COWPER GoLDWiN Smith. 

POPE Leslie Stephen. 

BYRON John Nicuol. 

LOCKE Thomas Fowler. 

WORDSWORTH F. Myers. 

DRYDEN G. Saintsbcry. 

LANDOR Sidney Colvin. 

DE QUINCEY David Masson. 

LAMB Alfred Ainger. 

BENTLEY R. C. Jech. 

DICKENS A. W. W^ARD. 

GRAY E. W. GossE. 

SWIFT Leslie Stephen. 

STERNE H. D. Traill. 

MACAULAY J. Cotter Mokison, 

FIELDING Austin Dobson. 

SHERIDAN Mrs. Oliphant. 

12mo, Cloth, 75 cents per Volume. 
^ li >« Others will be announced. 

Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 

iW° Harper & Brothers vnll send any of the above works hy mail, postage 
3>repaid, to any part of the United States, on receipt of the price. 



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